THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


iln!.iiarg  Ufogarfc  Ollarfo 
Witb  a  Sfcetcb  ot  Her  life 

BY 

lUincbeetcr  "Oalt 


OInmpang, 


Copyright,  1905, 


WINCHESTER   HALL. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


PREFACE. 

THE  reason  for  assuming  to  prepare  an  edition 
of  Mary  Bayard  Clarke's  poems  and  a  sketch  of 
her  life,  may  be  gathered  from  the  following  para 
graph  in  a  letter  to  the  undersigned,  dated  July 
12,  1861 : 

"There  is  one  thing  I  have  often  tried  to  ask 
you  in  my  letters,  to  promise  me  you  will  do  for 
me ;  but  I  have  a  strange  reticence  that  often  pre 
vents  my  saying  what  I  long  to  say,  and  I  never 
could  get  up  my  courage  before  to  ask  you  to  be 
my  literary  executor. 

"The  war  has  stopped  the  publication  of  a 
volume  of  poems  and  perhaps  it  will  not,  in  my 
lifetime,  see  the  light;  if  not,  the  MSS.  will  be 
found  sealed  and  directed  to  you,  with  many 
other  poems  which  I  do  not  care  to  publish  my 
self ;  but  which  I  leave  to  you  to  do  with  as  you 
choose.  I  may  live  many  years,  but  as  I  can 
never  be  well  again,  and  as  I  have  no  settled 
home,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  have  some 
things  understood." 

It  may  be  mentioned  that  to  this  request  there 
was  added,  after  her  death,  the  wish  of  her  chil 
dren  and  their  preferred  aid  and  sympathy  in 
the  undertaking. 


623 


iv  Preface. 

While  I  have  assurance  the  poems  will  take 
more  than  an  ephemeral  place  in  American  song, 
I  have  misgivings  that  in  the  sketch  of  her  life 
I  have  not  entirely  succeeded  in  conveying  to  the 
mind  of  the  reader,  a  photographic  impress  of  a 
life  in  which  domestic  duties  were  fulfilled 
thoroughly,  and  with  rare  self-abnegation — 
which  was  essentially  a  life  of  labor  amid  much 
privation,  and  long  years  of  ill-health,  all  borne 
with  patient  resignation ;  a  life  enriched  with 
varied  and  extensive  readings  and  researches  in 
languages,  literature,  and  science,  yet  unobtrusive 
of  its  attainments,  and  liberal  and  unassuming 
in  its  opinions. 

WINCHESTER  HALL. 

POCOMOKE  CITY,  MARYLAND, 
August,  1905. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Mary  Bayard  Clarke vii 

The  Triumph  of  Spring  31 

The  Fairies'  Dance  40 

Shadows    45 

The  Rain  upon  the  Hills  47 

Nuptial  Hymn  of  the  Greeks   49 

Aphrodite     52 

Annie  Carter  Lee   56 

The  Water-Sprite's  Bridal  58 

Stonewall's    Resignation    67 

The   Rebel   Sock    69 

The  Tenth  of  May,  1866 73 

The  Chimes  of  St.  Paul's  75 

The  Stratagems  of  Love   77 

I  Wish  to  Love  Thee  79 

Cross  and  Crown  81 

In    Memoriam    82 

Clytie  and  Zenobia  83 

Notes  for  Clytie  and  Zenobia 121 

The  Organ  125 

The  Guard  Around  the  Tomb 129 

Oremus     130 

A  Legend  of  St.  Augustine 132 

Tidal    Bells    134 

Cleopatra's  Soliloquy   136 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

Thanksgiving   Psalm    141 

Resurgam     143 

Through  Doubt  to  Light  145 

Under  the  Lava  148 

The  Crown  Imperial   152 

De  Profundis    155 

Truth     156 

Onward     158 

Exegesis    160 

What    is    Religion  ?    162 

John   Wesley's   Foot-print    165 

He  of  Prayer  167 

The  Highest  Truth  169 

Matter     170 

The  Prophet's  Wonder  Staff   172 

The  Magic  Ring 176 

Hermes'  Ear   178 

The  Law  and  the  Gospel   180 

A  Legend  of  St.  Christopher  182 

The  Happy  Valley   186 

Thoughts    189 

The  Heart  of  Jesus   191 

Dux   Foemina    Facti    192 


MARY  BAYARD  CLARKE. 

WHEN  we  consider  the  physical  beauty  of  the 
world  which  lies  hidden  in  the  untrodden  wilder 
ness,  on  mountain  ranges,  down  sequestered 
valleys ;  or  the  spiritual  beauty  sheltered  in  lowly 
cottage,  ancient  hall,  and  in  the  unsunned  depths 
t)f  human  hearts ;  it  seems  a  part  of  our  nature 
to  seek  to  bring  one  or  the  other  to  light  and  ob 
servation,  in  order  it  may  gladden  and  cheer  and 
reflect  its  charms  on  sympathetic  hearts.  So,  in 
the  region  of  song,  when  deft  fingers  have  swept 
the  chords,  and  we  become  possessed  with  the 
melody  of  the  strain,  the  impulse  is  to  have  some 
one  share  with  us  a  pleasure,  that  does  not  seem 
entirely  our  own,  until  it  is  another's. 

The  name  of  Mary  Bayard  Clarke  is  known, 
in  her  native  South,  to  a  limited  and  appreciative 
circle  of  readers  and  friends.  In  seeking  to  en 
large  that  circle,  it  is  hoped  that  her  memory  will 
not  only  be  maintained  in  its  freshness,  among 
those  familiar  with  her  writings,  but  gratify  all 
those  who  are  interested  in  the  literature  of  our 
country,  and  the  lovers  of  the  beautiful  in  senti 
ment,  and  of  the  elevated  in  thought. 

In  the  year  1847  it  was  the  good  fortune  of  the 
writer  to  meet  Mary  Bayard  Devereux  at  Leigh- 
ton,  the  home  of  the  Right  Rev.  Leonidas  Polk, 
of  Louisiana,  where  she  was  making  a  visit  to 


viii  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

Mrs.  Polk,  her  father's  sister.  She  was  appar 
ently,  twenty  years  of  age,  of  medium  height; 
spare,  but  well  shaped ;  brown  hair,  a  fair  com 
plexion,  ears  small  and  well  set  in  the  head,  an 
oval  face,  a  Grecian  nose,  mouth  long,  but  not  no 
ticeably  so,  well  shaped  lips,  and  speaking  eyes  of 
bluish-grey.  With  a  countenance  all  aglow  with 
the  beauty  of  maidenhood,  a  grace  of  manner 
that  bore  witness  of  her  gentle  birth,  and  a  kind 
ness  of  heart  that  responded  to  every  appeal  to 
her  nature,  she  had  colloquial  powers  that  showed 
judicious  cultivation,  and  a  fancy  that  seemed 
born  of  a  dream  of  midsummer  night,  and  often 
burst  into  song. 

Mary  Bayard  Devereux  on  her  father's  side 
was  a  descendant  of  Thomas  Pollok,  who  mi 
grated  from  Scotland  to  the  colony  of  North 
Carolina  in  the  year  1683,  and  was  the  leading 
colonist  for  a  number  of  years.  He  received  a 
grant  of  land  from  King  Charles  the  Second, 
portions  of  which,  on  the  Roanoke  river,  re 
mained  in  the  possession  of  his  descendants  until 
about  the  year  1865. 

Thomas  Pollok,  a  grandson  of  the  above 
Thomas  Pollok,  married  Eunice  Edwards,  a 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Jonathan  Edwards,  of 
theologic  fame.  One  of  the  children  of  this 
marriage  was  Frances  Pollok,  who  married  John 
Devereux,  of  New  Berne,  N.  C,  the  son  of  John 
Devereux,  an  Irish  gentleman  of  White  Church, 
in  the  County  of  Wexford,  Ireland. 

Thomas  Pollok  Devereux,  one  of  the  children 
of  the  latter  marriage,  espoused  Katharine  Anne 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 


IX 


Johnson,  who  was  a  great-granddaughter  of  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson,  first  president  of  King's,  now 
Columbia  College,  in  the  City  of  New  York.  The 
subject  of  this  memoir  was  one  of  the  children 
of  this  marriage,  and  was  born  in  Raleigh,  May 
13,  1827.  She  was  deprived  of  the  advantage 
of  a  mother's  influence,  as  her  mother  died  while 
she  was  a  child,  but  the  social  position  of  her 
father  as  a  gentleman  of  landed  estate,  and  an 
eminent  lawyer,  gave  to  her  all  the  benefit  asso 
ciation  and  education  could  bestow.  Her  natural 
endowments  responded  to  educational  training. 
She  developed  early  a  decided  turn  for  letters, 
and  soon  was  acquainted  with  French,  Spanish 
and  German  literature,  as  well  as  that  of  her 
mother-tongue.  She  quickly  learned  to  express 
her  thoughts  with  unobtrusive  yet  ready  wit  in 
conversation,  and  to  write  her  sentiments  with 
Ariel-like  sweetness  and  spirit. 

In  1848  William  J.  Clarke,  a  young  captain  in 
the  war  with  Mexico,  arrived  at  Leighton.  He 
had  been  a  playmate  of  Mary  Bayard  in  Raleigh, 
and  the  amity  of  childhood  in  time  had  grown 
to  a  stronger  feeling,  which  resulted  in  a  be 
trothal  prior  to  his  joining  the  army.  Fresh  from 
the  battlefields  of  Mexico,  with  scars  which 
showed  his  service,  and  promoted  to  the  rank  of 
Major  for  gallantry,  he  had  now  come  to  claim 
his  betrothed.  They  were  married  at  Leighton  on 
April  6th,  of  that  year,  by  her  uncle,  the  Bishop 
of  Louisiana,  and  soon  returned  to  Raleigh, 
where  Major  Clarke  resumed  the  practice  of 
law,  which  he  had  temporarily  abandoned  for  the 


x  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

army;  and  he  was  for  some  time  auditor  of  the 
State  of  North  Carolina. 

Mrs.  Clarke,  physically,  was  of  a  feeble  tem 
perament,  although  her  face  bore  no  indication 
of  it  in  early  life,  and  the  climate  of  Raleigh 
gradually  developed  unfavorable  influences  upon 
her  health.  She  passed  the  winter  of  1854-55 
in  Cuba.  The  air  strengthened  her,  and  it  may 
be  assured  the  enchantment  of  this  beauteous  isle 
was  fully  appreciated  during  the  visit ;  an  incident 
of  which  she  related  to  the  writer  in  a  letter  of 
that  time: 

"I  did  not  expect  to  be  more  than  two  days  in 
Matanzas,  and  only  took  a  small  portion  of  my 
wardrobe,  otherwise  I  should  have  been  tempted 
to  prolong  my  stay  indefinitely.  I  had  left  my 
riding  dress  in  Havana,  and  when  I  was  told  I 
should  lose  half  the  beauties  of  the  trip  if  I  did 
not  go  on  horseback  had  to  set  my  wits  to  work 
to  improvise  a  skirt  for  the  occasion ;  fortunately 
I  had  a  large  shawl  with  me  which  ten  minutes' 
sewing  converted  into  a  skirt  of  the  most  brilliant 
description ;  large  plaids  of  orange  and  blue  pre 
dominated,  which  with  a  black  silk  basque,  and 
a  panama  hat,  rendered  my  costume  unique  to 
say  the  least.  My  steed  was  a  Creole  pony,  of 
such  small  dimensions  that  when  I  was  mounted 
I  could  only  compare  myself  to  Tripaolemus  Yel- 
lowby  in  The  Pirate,'  who  entirely  hid  his  Shet 
land  pony  with  the  ample  folds  of  his  Sunday 
cloak,  and  was  obliged  to  hold  up  his  knees  to 
keep  his  feet  off  the  ground.  We  ascended  the 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xi 

ridge  on  the  side  next  the  sea,  and  came  back 
through  the  valley;  when  we  reached  the  top  we 
had  a  view  of  both  that  surpassed  anything  I 
ever  saw  before;  on  one  hand  far  below  us,  lay 
the  beautiful  Bay  of  Matanzas,  its  blue  waters 
dotted  over  with  ships,  which,  in  the  distance, 
seemed  no  larger  than  fishing-craft,  while  on  the 
other  we  looked  down  into  the  Valley  of  the 
Youmori,  covered  with  its  yellow-green  cane, 
interspersed  with  large  white  sugar  houses,  that 
a  little  imagination  might,  when  viewed  from  that 
height,  convert  into  elegant  country  places,  sur 
rounded  with  stately  palms,  lifting  their  feathery 
crown  above  all  other  trees.  As  we  came  down 
the  mountain  I  was  reminded  of  the  Happy  Val 
ley  where  Rasselas  dwelt,  for  without  wings 
escape  seemed  impossible ;  the  road  by  which  we 
descended  was  hidden  by  the  trees,  and  the  only 
break  in  the  hills,  through  which  the  river  flowed 
out,  was  not  visible  from  where  we  stood." 

One  who  saw  her  frequently  during  her  visit 
to  Cuba,  said  of  her: 

Sprightly,  intellectual,  and  remarkable,  not 
only  for  her  easy,  graceful  manners,  but  her  deli 
cate,  fragile  beauty,  she  was  the  acknowledged 
queen  oi  society  in  the  circle  in  which  she  moved. 
The  Spanish  Creoles  are  very  frank  in  their  ad- 
mriation  of  beauty,  which  they  regard  as  the  gift 
of  God,  not  only  to  the  possessor,  but  to  the 
admirer  of  it ;  and  nothing  like  the  furore  created 
among  them,  by  the  blue  eyes,  fair  complexion, 
masses  of  soft,  sunny  curls,  and  clear-cut,  intel- 


xii  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

lectual  features  of  this  lady,  can  be  conceived  of 
in  this  country.  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  her 
was  at  the  Tacon  theatre.  She  was  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  Mr.  Gales  Seyton,  of  The  National 
Intelligencer,  and  surrounded  by  three  or  four 
British  naval  officers,  in  full  uniform,  and,  as 
the  party  walked  into  the  private  box  of  the 
Spanish  Admiral,  every  eye  was  turned  on  them, 
and  a  hum  of  admiration  rose  from  the  specta 
tors  such  as  could  only  be  heard  in  similar  cir 
cumstances  from  a  Spanish  audience.  Shortly 
after  this  I  met  her  at  a  ball  given  by  the  British 
Consul  General,  in  the  Aldamer  palace,  and  was 
presented  to  her  by  Mr.  Seyton,  and  from  that 
time  saw  her  almost  daily  for  four  months,  dur 
ing  which  she  reigned  the  acknowledged  queen 
of  the  small  but  select  society  of  English  and 
Americans  residing  in  the  City  of  Havana,  in 
creased,  as  it  is  every  winter  by  visitors  from  all 
parts  of  the  United  States,  English,  American, 
and  French  naval  officers,  and  such  foreigners  as 
speak  English.  A  more  brilliant  circle  than  it 
was  that  winter  it  would  be  hard  to  find  any 
where.  But  while  to  casual  observers  Mrs. 
Clarke  was  but  the  enfant  gate  of  society,  to 
those  who  looked  further  she  was  also  the  highly 
cultivated  and  intellectual  woman.  The  Honor 
able  Miss  Murray,  then  on  her  American  tour, 
was  charmed  with  her,  and  said  she  was  the  only 
woman  she  had  met  in  America  who,  without 
being  a  blue-stocking,  was  yet  thoroughly  edu 
cated.  "She  has  not  an  accomplishment,"  said 
that  lady,  "beyond  her  highly  cultivated  conver- 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xiii 

sational  powers,  but  they,  with  her  beauty  and 
graceful  manners,  would  render  her  an  orna 
ment  to  any  circle  in  which  she  might  move." 

But  the  lady-in-waiting  of  Queen  Victoria  was 
mistaken,  for  Mrs.  Clarke  had  two  accomplish 
ments,  both  rarely  found  in  perfection  among 
ladies.  She  was  a  bold,  fearless  and  graceful 
horsewoman,  and  played  an  admirable  game  of 
chess.  Speaking  of  her  quickness,  and  the  felici 
tous  skill  with  which  she  threw  off  little  jeu 
d'esprits,  in  the  shape  of  vers  de  societe,  one  day 
to  Mr.  Seyton,  he  replied:  "She  is  capable  of 
better  things  than  she  has  yet  done,  and  if  she 
lives  long  enough  will,  I  predict,  make  a  name 
for  herself  among  the  poets  of  our  country.  I 
may  not  live  to  see  the  noontide  of  her  success, 
but  I  can  already  see  its  dawn." 

A  visit  to  a  genial  clime,  however,  brought  only 
temporary  relief,  and  it  was  determined  she 
should  reside  under  more  favorable  skies.  Texas 
seemed  to  offer  the  proper  advantages,  and  San 
Antonio  was  selected  as  her  future  home,  where 
she  moved  early  in  1856.  Shortly  after  she  left 
Raleigh  she  wrote  from  Tennessee,  giving  an 
account  of  her  latter  days,  at  her  early  home : 

"What  with  packing  such  articles  of  furniture 
as  I  desired  to  take,  preparing  the  rest  for  the 
auction  room,  bidding  good-bye  to  my  many 
friends,  and  getting  the  children  ready  for  the 
winter,  I  thought  my  hands  were  full,  but  I  was 
mistaken.  In  the  midst  of  all  Major  Clarke 
found  he  needed  my  services  as  a  clerk,  and  for 


xiv  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

days  I  sat,  pen  in  hand,  computing  the  interest  of 
different  amounts  of  money,  running  over  every 
conceivable  division  of  ten  years.  At  last  every 
sum  was  done,  every  article  packed  or  sold,  and 
poor  Multiflora  Cottage  stood  empty  and  dis 
mantled!  With  a  heavy  heart  I  turned  my  face 
from  it  to  set  out  on  my  journey.  But  my 
strength  was  all  gone;  as  soon  as  the  stimulus 
of  hard  work,  both  mental  and  bodily,  was  taken 
from  me,  I  sunk  into  complete  despondency. 
Every  parting  seemed  to  tear  a  bit  from  my 
heart. 

"Poor,  ugly,  inconvenient  Multiflora  Cottage ! 
How  beautiful  do  you  look  drawn  by  the  pencil 
of  memory,  on  a  leaf  of  my  heart,  and  set  in  a 
frame  of  sweet  recollections !  Thus  will  you  ever 
hang — :a  soft  mezzotint  in  the  picture  gallery  of 
memory. 

"Distance  mellows  your  imperfections,  and 
Time  shall  obliterate  all  but  your  pleasant  remi 
niscences.  Long  will  it  be  before  my  heart  can 
cling  as  lovingly  to  another  home,  or  my  men*- 
ory  recall  as  many  happy  hours." 

In  the  frontier  life  to  which  she  now  looked 
forward,  inconveniences  were  expected,  and 
privations  were  a  part  of  it ;  but  an  improvement 
in  health  reconciled  her  to  the  rugged  life.  Gov 
ernment  troops  were  stationed  at  San  Antonio 
and  the  officers  and  their  families  afforded  so 
ciety.  Among  the  officers  was  Albert  Sydney 
Johnston,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  mentioned  to  the 
writer,  with  what  ease  and  grace  he  often  lifted 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xv 

her  from  the  ground  into  the  saddle  by  taking  her 
up  with  both  hands,  and  without  effort  on  her 
part. 

Major  Clarke  soon  came  prominently  before 
the  public  as  President  of  the  San  Antonio  and 
Mexican  Gulf  Railway.  Mrs.  Clarke,  whose 
domestic  duties  always  claimed  her  first  attention, 
wrote  in  September,  1856: 

"When  my  heart  is  busy  with  sad  thoughts 
my  mind  is  idle,  so  I  have  resolutely  set  to  work 
and  am  now  studying  Spanish  and  making  shirts. 
When  the  children  are  all  asleep  I  take  my  play 
time,  and  either  read  or  write." 

In  one  of  her  letters  the  same  year  she  writes : 

"I  can  no  longer  be  considered  an  invalid  for 
I  eat,  sleep,  walk,  ride  on  horseback,  and  work 
like  a  well  person.  The  weather  is  so  charming 
it  is  hard  to  stay  in  the  house.  I  often  resolve 
on  Monday  that  I  will  be  very  domestic  all  the 
week,  and  get  through  lots  of  sewing,  but  at  the 
first  invitation  to  join  a  party  and  go  out  nutting 
I  start  up  like  a  war-horse  at  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet,  pack  the  children  in  a  carriage,  jump 
on  a  horse  and  am  off  for  the  day  gathering  not 
only  pecans,  but  health  and  strength  from  the 
fresh  breezes  of  the  prairie." 

In  the  same  she  mentions  a  thrilling  incident: 
"I  have  a  habit,  when  alone,  of  getting  up  and 


xvi  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

going  through  the  house  if  I  hear  a  noise  at  night, 
and  as  housebreaking  has  been  prevalent  of  late 
I  always  sleep  with  a  pistol  on  the  mantel-piece. 
I  was  awakened  a  night  last  week  by  a  noise  like 
the  cracking  of  a  whip,  and  having  not  even  a 
grown  servant  in  the  house,  got  up  to  see  what 
was  the  cause;  just  as  I  was  about  leaving  my 
room  I  heard  a  key  turned  softly  in  the  door.  I 
made  one  bound  to  the  pistol  and  another  to  the 
door,  which  I  threw  open  and  found  myself 
within  ten  steps  of  a  man  who  had  just  opened 
the  front  door,  and  was  apparently  listening  to 
know  if  he  had  aroused  any  one.  I  did  not  know 
I  had  half  so  much  of  what  is  generally  termed 
the  devil  in  me.  I  had  but  one  intense  desire,  and 
that  was  to  kill  him.  I  had  not  a  sensation  of 
fear,  but  raised  the  pistol  and  took  delib 
erate  aim  at  him;  he  must  have  see  the  ac 
tion,  for  the  moon  was  very  bright,  and  as 
I  fired  he  jumped  aside  so  as  to  put  the 
door-way  between  us,  otherwise  he  must 
have  received  the  charge,  which  lodged  in  the 
fence  in  a  direct  line  from  where  I  stood.  He 
ran,  and  I  after  him,  and  it  was  not  until  I  had 
got  several  steps  out  of  the  door  that  I  remem 
bered  my  defenceless  condition,  when  I  turned 
and  ran  to  my  next  neighbor,  not  twenty  yards 
off,  and  rousing  the  gentleman  I  rushed  back  to 
•my  children,  who  were  sleeping.  By  the  time  I 
had  assistance  the  robber  was  out  of  sight;  and 
then  I  began  to  feel  afraid,  and  sitting  down 
with  the  large  cavalry  sabre  which  I  had  taken 
down  from  a  peg  in  the  hall  after  my  return,  I 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xvii 

cried  like  a  child.  The  fright  and  exposure 
gave  me  a  chill  and  I  have  been  sick  and  nervous 
ever  since,  and  while  acquaintances  are  talking 
of  my  bravery  feel  myself  the  veriest  coward." 
The  mild  climate  of  San  Antonio,  however, 
while  it  had  a  favorable  influence,  failed  as  a 
restorative  to  the  patient;  the  discomforts  of 
frontier  life  doubtless  hindered  recovery.  Her 
health  continued  to  decline  until  a  crisis  was 
reached,  at  which  her  physician  insisted  she  must 
leave  the  place.  The  stirring  war  time,  too,  was 
at  hand,  and  its  excitement  was  prejudicial  to 
her  morbidly  nervous  organization. 

In  June,  1861,  Major  Clarke,  having  already 
entered  the  Southern  army,  she  started  with  her 
four  children  for  Raleigh,  with  the  expectation 
of  remaining  with  her  family  until  more  settled 
times.  She  traveled  by  way  of  Galveston,  thence 
to  Berwick's  Bay,  Louisiana,  in  an  open  pilot 
boat  which  took  four  days  for  the  passage,  during 
which  the  children  and  herself  were  frequently 
drenched  by  the  rain. 

During  the  war  Mrs.  Clarke  remained  with  her 
family  in  North  Carolina,  and  was  much  of  the 
time  in  Raleigh,  where  the  writer  met  her  in  1864. 
He  wished  to  see  all  places  in  the  locality  asso 
ciated  with  her  childhood  and  early  life,  which 
she  willingly  pointed  out  to  him,  and  it  was  with 
lively  interest  he  noted  the  home  where  she  first 
saw  light;  the  noble  oak,  under  whose  shade  she 
played,  the  old  schoolhouse  where  she  learned  her 
letters,  the  stones  over  which  little  feet  pattered 
on  the  way  to  school ;  she  took  him  to  Multiflora 


xviii  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

Cottage  and  stood  with  him  before  the  grave  of 
her  mother. 

Major  Clarke  accepted  a  commission  as 
Colonel  of  the  Twenty-fourth  Regiment  of  North 
Carolina  Infantry  and  was  with  that  regiment  in 
its  numerous  engagements,  in  one  of  which  he 
was  severely  wounded  in  the  shoulder  by  a  frag 
ment  of  shell.  His  capture  and  imprisonment  in 
Fort  Delaware  toward  the  close  of  the  war 
doubtless  saved  him  from  further  injury,  as  the 
Twenty-fourth  in  its  last  battle  suffered  terribly; 
there  was  not  a  single  officer  in  it  above  the  grade 
of  lieutenant  who  was  not  killed,  wounded  or 
captured. 

In  1865  Mrs.  Clarke  became  assistant  editor 
of  The  Southern  Field  and  Fireside,  and 
writes  from  Raleigh : 

"I  leave  home  at  9  o'clock  and  write  in  the 
office  until  2.  I  review  new  books,  write  to 
correspondents,  select  matter,  and  write  articles 
for  the  paper.  I  have  a  large  quiet  room,  com 
fortably  furnished,  with  carpet  and  curtains,  and 
am  treated  as  a  decided,  and  much-to-be-made-of 
addition  to  the  establishment.  My  salary  is  paid 
weekly,  and  I  generally  leave  home  with  the 
children  when  they  go  to  school,  and  return  when 
they  do.  I  do  not  feel  they  are  neglected. 

"My  old  Texas  negro  servant,  hearing  I  was 
sick  and  needed  her,  came  back  to  me,  and  my 
family  are  now  all  together  for  the  first  time  in 
four  years." 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xix 

The  connection  with  The  Southern  Field  and 
Fireside  lasted  only  a  few  months,  as  Mrs.  Clarke 
considered  the  proprietors  had  not  dealt  with  her 
fairly.  In  1866  she  began  writing  regularly  for 
The  Old  Guard,  and  occasionally  for  The 
Land  We  Love.  A  volume  of  her  poems  ap 
peared  about  this  time  entitled  "Mosses  from  a 
Rolling  Stone,"  and  was  sold  for  the  benefit 
of  the  fund  raised  by  the  ladies  of  Winchester 
(Va.),,  for  the  Stonewall  Jackson  cemetery  of 
that  place. 

Mrs.  Clarke  wrote  occasionally  about  this  time, 
but  says  in  one  of  her  letters : 

"Though  there  is  a  demand  for  my  correspond 
ence  and  contributions  when  they  are  furnished 
gratis,  I  can  not  get  much  money  from  Southern 
editors;  they  are  too  poor  to  pay  well." 

In  1868  Colonel  Clarke  went  to  New  Berne 
(N.  C.)  to  engage  in  the  practice  of  the  law. 
Mrs.  Clarke  soon  followed,  and  writes  of  her  ac 
tive  life. 

"I  am  busy  editing  my  paper,  the  Literary 
Pastime;  corresponding  with  two  others;  con 
tributing  to  two  magazines ;  and  translating  a 
French  novel ;  added  to  which  I  am  composing 
the  libretto  for  an  opera,  and  writing  Sunday- 
school  hymns  at  five  dollars  apiece." 

Although  there  was  scant  remuneration  from 
her  busy  pen,  in  1869  Mrs.  Clarke  was  able  to 


xx  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

purchase  a  house  in  New  Berne,  which  was  her 
home  during  the  remainder  of  her  days. 

Soon  after  Colonel  Clarke's  removal  to  New 
Berne  he  was  commissioned  Judge  of  the  third 
judicial  district  of  the  State,  and  held  the  office 
for  a  number  of  years. 

Mrs.  Clarke's  suffering  on  account  of  her 
health  increased  from  year  to  year.  The  climate 
of  New  Berne  was  not  friendly  to  it,  but  she  had 
not  the  means  to  take  advantage  of  any  other. 
Judge  Clarke's  salary  helped  to  defray  domestic 
expenses  while  it  lasted,  but  when  he  subse 
quently  resumed  the  practice  of  law,  his  income 
became  much  reduced,  and  the  material  fruits  of 
Mrs.  Clarke's  literary  labors,  always  acceptable 
in  view  of  their  limited  resources,  were  now 
the  main  source  of  supplying  the  requirements 
of  the  household ;  and  nobly  did  she  strive  to 
meet  pressing  daily  necessities,  leaving  many 
comforts  and  all  luxuries  as  things  that  might  be 
hoped  for,  but  not  expected.  With  all  her  cour 
ageous  effort,  the  return  was  inconsiderable,  as 
general  publishers,  and  proprietors  of  the  maga 
zines  and  newspapers,  particularly  of  the  South, 
who  had  the  advantage  of  her  writings,  either 
were  unwilling,  or  too  poor  to  pay  for  them ;  al 
though  always  gratified  to  have  a  poem,  an  ar 
ticle  or  a  letter  in  their  columns,  under  her  sig 
nature.  Her  life  became  a  dreary  monotone  in 
every  material  aspect,  but  above  bodily  ills,  and 
these  mists  of  care  and  anxiety,  rose  an  unsub 
dued  spirit,  and  a  fancy  ever  ready  for  a  flight; 
and  which  reposed  only  to  be  refreshed  for  fur- 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xxi 

ther  enterprise  in  her  favorite  domain  of  song. 
On  New  Year's  Day,  1876,  she  wrote: 

"I  wish  I  could  say  I  was  well,  but  I  have  no 
hope  of  ever  being  better.  I  am  one  of  those 
doors  that  hang  long,  but  will  always  creak. 
Any  sudden  or  unusual  tax  on  my  strength,  or 
any  anxiety  or  worry,  upsets  me  entirely;  and 
the  worst  is  that  people  who  see  me,  only  when 
I  am  at  my  best,  think  one-half  my  ill-health  im 
aginary,  and  the  other  half  only  the  indulgence 
of  my  own  whims — that  I  can  do  what  is  agree 
able  to  me,  but  can  not  do  what  is  not;  simply 
because  I  won't.  I  can't  keep  house  or  sew,  with 
out  being  laid  up  in  a  few  days ;  and  it  is  impos 
sible  for  me  to  get  any  writing  to  do  that  will 
pay  and  enable  me  to  hire  the  work  done.  So  I 
am  generally  either  trying  to  do  it,  or  repenting 
that  I  have  tried.  I  sometimes  despair  and  wish 
for  the  end,  for  I  am  so  tired  of  it  all.  The  new 
year  seems  but  another  link,  added  to  a  heavy 
chain.  So  here  I  am  tired — rusting  instead  of 
wearing  out — the  old  year  closes  sadly,  and  the 
new  brings  no  hope  of  anything  better." 

In  March  of  the  same  year  she  wrote: 

"I  review  for  Harper,  Appleton,  Sheldon, 
Scribner  and  Hale,  but  get  only  copies  of  the 
books  from  the  publishers.  Sometimes  I  can 
get  pay  for  a  review,  but  not  often.  I  would 
give  it  up,  but  the  reading  matter  keeps  me  from 
utter  despair,  by  interesting  my  mind." 


xxii  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

The  following  extract  of  a  letter  written  in 
November,  1878,  is  in  the  cheerful  tone  that  she 
usually  maintained,  in  spite  of  privation  and  ill- 
health  : 

" I  have  been  on  a  spree  of  reading  and 

writing.  In  three  days  I  wrote  five  poems  and 
two  news  letters.  I  will  be  merciful  and  send 
you  one  of  the  last  when  printed,  which  will  con 
tain  one  poem,  the  other  four  will  keep  until 
printed,  when  you  will  get  them  in  broken  doses. 
My  son  Willie  says  I  have  literary  delirium  tre- 
mens,  for,  of  course,  I  have  a  headache,  which  I 
impute  to  mince  pie  and  Thanksgiving,  and  the 
Doctor  to  my  brain,  which  is  shaky.  He  threat 
ens  me  with  congestion  of  it  if  I  don't  stop  read 
ing  and  writing  for  a  while.  I  am  having  bron 
chitis  pretty  badly  this  fall,  and  that  always  keeps 
me  out  of  company,  as  talking  is  tiresome — con 
sequently  I  read  more  than  usual ;  have  just  fin 
ished  a  new  history  of  the  French  Revolution 
epoch,  by  Van  Laure,  and  "Idols  and  Ideals,"  by 
Moncure  B.  Conway — a  perfect  mine  of  literary 
jewels,  from  which  I  have  stolen  a  handful  and 
reset  in  rhyme,  which  is  the  cause  of  three  of  the 
five  poems." 

Her  heroic  struggle  against  disease,  care  and 
despondency  seemed  of  little  avail,  and  while 
they  did  not  subdue  her  spirit,  caused  her  to  note 
the  unequal  contest.  In  May,  1883,  she  wrote: 

"I  feel  life  a  muddle,  too  dense  for  me  to  dis- 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xxiii 

entangle,  and  so  sit  longing  for  it  to  end  before 
I  lose  the  power  to  be  of  any  use  in  it." 

Serious  as  her  trials  had  been  in  seeking  to 
baffle  bodily  ailment,  a  more  severe  trial  awaited, 
of  which  she  wrote  in  November,  1883 : 

"My  death  warrant  has  been  read  to  me.  I 
shall  not,  probably,  die  soon,  but  I  live  under 
sentence  of  death  and  almost  in  a  cell,  for  I  have 
had  a  stroke  of  paralysis,  affecting  all  my  left 
side.  The  Doctor  says  from  brain  trouble.  I 
write  w-hile  I  am  able  to  tell  you  this  myself.  I 
can  drag  myself  around  the  house,  and  talk  after 
a  fashion,  but  I  will  never  go  in  public  as  Lam 
now,  and  I  have  no  hope  of  being  better.  I  will 
write  as  long  as  I  can,  and  always  be  the  same — 
no,  not  that,  I  can't  be  the  same  Mary  Bayard 
ever  again." 

A  month  after  the  stroke  she  wrote : 

"  'The  grasshopper  is  a  burden,'  or  I  would 
have  written  to  you  before.  They  say  I  will  get 
over  it,  but  I  feel  I  never  shall.  The  Catholic 
priest  came  to  see  me  the  other  day — a  good,  old 
Irishman,  who  thinks  me  the  best  of  heretics, 
and  I  think  he  did  me  more  good  than  any  one 
else.  'Be  the  same  woman  ye  were?  No!  ye've 
no  right  to  expect  that,  and  then  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  he  patted  me  on  the  shoulder  and  added : 
'But  there's  plenty  left  in  life  for  ye  to  do,  and 
enjoy  yet,  if  ye  can't  be  first  and  foremost  and 


xxiv  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

go  at  things  with  a  rush,  as  ye  have  done.'  This 
is  the  truth  I  am  trying  to  bring  home  to  myself, 
and  I  wish  my  children  could  make  up  their 
minds  that  mother  is  not  going  to  get  over  it, 
but  may  live  for  years  as  she  is,  and  had  best  try 
and  adapt  herself  to  circumstances." 

Unable  to  use  a  pen,  she  practiced  upon  a  type 
writer  a  friend  kindly  sent  to  her,  and  in  April, 
1884,  sent  to  the  writer  a  neat  note  in  type  in 
which  she  says : 

"Post  yourself  on  tricycles.  I  see  ladies  are 
using  them,  and  I  mean  to  try  if  I  can  get  about 
on  one;  I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to  do  so, 
but  know  I  had  better  do  so,  if  in  my  power. 

"I  cannot  tell  you*  how  much  I  enjoy  my  cali- 
graph.  I  could  not  write  now  without  it,  as  for 
ten  days  I  have  had  gout  in  my  right  hand ;  I 
can  use  it  with  either  hand,  or  rather  with  one 
finger  of  either  hand." 

Her  love  of  letters  clung  to  her  to  the  last.  In 
April,  1885,  she  wrote : 

"I  am  stronger  than  I  have  been  since  I  had 
the  stroke,  but  my  head  is  so  confused,  and  my 
memory  so  much  affected  I  can  do  little  or  no 
brain  work.  An  hour  of  it  tires  me  more  than 
a  day  of  it  used  to  do.  I  have  even  lost  my  power 
of  reading,  for  more  than  a  short  time,  without 
rest.  I  have  just  finished  'The  Life  of  George 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xxv 

Eliot,'  by  her  husband,  Mr.  Cross,  and  am  de 
lighted  with  it,  but  the  magazines  and  papers  are 
about  all  I  am  equal  to  now." 

Again  in  November,  1885,  she  wrote: 

"I  am  very  much  interested  in  the  Ethical 
Culture  Movement,  and  have  just  finished  a  re 
view  of  Weston's  Lectures  on  it.  Have  you 
seen  them?  I  have  very  little  time  for  either 
reading  or  writing  now,  and  feel  very  rusty,  but 
sometimes  I  rouse  up,  and  write  a  letter  or  read 
a  book,  though  generally  my  time  is  taken  up 
with  sewing,  housekeeping  and  attending  to  my 
sick  husband." 

Judge  Clarke,  whose  illness  is  mentioned  in  the 
foregoing  extract,  died  in  January,  1886.  Mrs. 
Clarke  wrote : 

"I  am  so  miserable  with  a  malarial  fever.  I 
have  not  strength  to  sit  up,  but,  thankful  he  was 
spared  all  suffering.  The  last  four  months  of 
his  life  was  peaceful  and  happy — he  had  all  his 
little  wants  gratified,  and  we  petted  him  like  a 
spoiled  child." 

Mrs.  Clarke  died  on  March  30,  1886.  Shortly 
afterward  her  daughter  wrote: 

"On  the  8th  of  March  mother  had  another 
stroke.  She  had  been  greatly  worried  in  getting 
the  house  in  order  for  my  brother  Willie's  mar 
riage.  Father's  death  and  Willie's  marriage  were 


xxvi  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

too  much  for  her.  I  tried  in  every  way  to  keep 
her  as  quiet  as  possible,  as  I  was  fearful  of  an 
other  attack.  It  was  at  her  earnest  request  I  was 
married  at  her  bedside.  After  that  she  appeared 
to  have  put  every  earthly  thing  away.  She  lin 
gered,  without  suffering,  about  two  weeks  longer, 
gradually  growing  more  feeble,  until  she  ceased 
to  breathe." 

These  disjointed  facts  and  fragments  of  let 
ters  to  the  writer,  may  enable  one  to  form  an  idea 
of  her  outer  life;  as  to  her  inner  and  spiritual 
life  her  poems  speak  in  no  unmeaning  tone. 

It  is  usually  supposed  the  literary  pursuits  of 
a  wife  and  mother  cannot  otherwise  than  preju 
dice  the  routine  of  daily  cares  incident  to  a  house 
hold.  The  domestic  life  of  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  furnishes  a  notable  illustration  to  the  con 
trary.  Her  family  was  of  primary  concern,  to 
which  all  other  wishes  yielded  precedence.  Lit 
erary  recreation  and  labor  was  subordinate  to 
giving  to  her  home  and  its  inmates,  all  the  com 
forts  circumstances  allowed.  Her  children's  wel 
fare  was  the  first  object  of  her  heart;  self-abne 
gation,  where  they  were  concerned,  was  a  duty 
crowned  with  pleasure,  and  the  fact  they  have  be 
come  respected  and  influential  members  of  soci 
ety,  may  be  traced  to  her  training  and  unceasing 
exertions  in  their  behalf. 

With  all  her  fondness  for  the  sequestered  life 
of  a  student,  and  the  solitude  in  which  reflection 
or  fancy  could  have  full  sway,  she  was  not  a  re 
cluse;  but  sought  the  companionship  of  congenial 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.          xxvii 

spirits,  and  had  for  society  a  zest  without  alloy. 
Her  colloquial  powers  which  varied  and  exten 
sive  reading  gave  something  more  than  the  com 
monplace  talk  of  the  drawing  room,  was  made  all 
the  more  interesting  by  her  unassuming  manner. 
It  was  foreign  to  her  nature  to  make  display  of 
her  acquisitions,  and  she  never  insisted  on  a 
point  in  history  or  letters  which  may  have  been 
questioned,  although  her  faithful  memory  was 
rarely  at  fault.  Ill-health,  however,  and  un 
toward  circumstances,  compelled  her,  in  a  great 
measure,  to  forego  the  enjoyment  of  that  social 
life  in  which  an  impromptu  verse  by  her,  a  repar 
tee,  or  her  ready  and  amiable  wit,  was  delight 
ful  and  pre-emient. 

Mrs.  Clarke  had  an  easy,  graceful,  fluent  style 
in  prose.  Her  contributions  to  various  magazines 
and  newspapers  of  the  day  were  numerous,  and 
showed  vigor  of  thought,  rare  discernment  and 
a  critical  taste. 

From  the  year  1865  to  the  year  1883  was  a 
busy  portion  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  busy  life.  This 
period  embraced  the  reconstruction  era  in  politics, 
and  it  was  also  a  re-establishment  of  social  con 
dition.  The  framework  of  society  was  involved 
in  the  struggle  for  Southern  Independence  and 
constitutional  liberty,  and  was  disintegrated  by  it 
as  effectually  as  the  thin,  ragged  battalions  of 
Lee  were  scattered  by  overwhelming  odds. 

While  the  question  of  supply  for  material  need, 
at  this  time,  was  paramount ;  the  question  next  in 
importance  was  the  manner  in  which  to  meet  the 
new  phase  of  life  which  confronted  all,  and  to 


xxviii  Mary    Bayard    Clarke. 

formulate  and  carry  out  views  adapted  to  the 
changed  and  lower  fortunes  of  the  people. 

Novel  circumstances  required  novel  views  to 
meet  them,  as  an  unexpected  move  of  an  enemy 
might  require  a  skilful  commander  to  vary  his 
plan  of  battle,  even  on  the  field.  There  was 
nought  to  be  gained  in  surrendering  to  despair, 
or  moaning  over  lost  opportunity.  The  need  of 
the  time  was  high  resolve  to  meet  new  and  dis 
tressing  contingencies,  by  heroism  worthy  of  the 
fields  of  Manassas  or  Chickamauga ;  and  out  of 
the  loins  of  adversity  to  pluck  the  sweetness  of 
peace  and  content.  It  was  into  this  patriotic 
work  that  Mrs.  Clarke  entered  with  all  the  force 
of  her  nature.  Her  pen  was  never  wearied,  nor 
did  it  ever  rest,  until  chaos  had  resolved  itself 
into  order,  and  harmony  had  succeeded  to  dis 
cord  and  contention. 

Mrs.  Clarke's  literary  range  was  not  limited  to 
her  mother-tongue.  She  was  familiar  with  many 
of  the  best  writers  in  German,  Spanish  and 
French,  and  made  translations  from  these  lan 
guages  in  easy  and  graceful  prose,  and  in  verse 
whose  rhymthic  flow  and  truthful  rendering 
caused  them  to  be  acceptable  contributions  to  the 
literature  of  the  language. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  attribute  of  art  is  to 
suggest  infinitely  more  than  it  expresses,  and  of 
genius  to  catch  suggestions,  no  matter  from  what 
source,  and  reproduce  them  stamped  with  its  own 
unmistakable  mark.  Tried  by  this  standard, 
these  poems  may  not  be  unworthily  placed  among 
the  tributes  of  genius  to  poetic  art. 


Mary    Bayard    Clarke.  xxix 

Her  versatile  power  of  rendering  an  incident 
into  rhyme  caused  her  to  write  many  poems  of 
passing  and  local  interest,  which  it  has  been 
deemed  proper  to  omit,  as  they  were  never  in 
tended  for  other  than  the  time  and  place  in  which 
they  had  their  origin.  The  poems  selected  are 
given  in  chronological  order,  with  a  view  of 
showing  the  favored  themes  of  her  fancy,  at  dif 
ferent  stages  of  her  career.  In  their  mute  ap 
peal  for  a  permanent  place  in  the  literature  of 
Southern  homes,  if  not  to  a  more  extended  cir 
cle,  the  views  of  the  writer  of  this  sketch  may  not 
be  impartial,  and,  indeed,  may  be  out  of  place. 
He  feels,  however,  that  appeal  will  not  be  made 
in  vain,  and  that  they  will  have  a  place  in  the 
Queendom  of  song,  due  to  their  intrinsic  merit, 
under  the  verdict  of  the  hearts  "touched  to  fine 
issues,"  for  which  they  were  intended. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  SPRING. 

An  early,  novel  and  well-sustained  effort  of  the  cre 
ative  genius  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  first  appeared  in  "Wood- 
Notes,"  a  collection  of  poems,  written  by  North  Caroli 
nians,  edited  by  her,  and  published  in  1854. 

The  Ice-King  opened  his  frozen  gates  to  hold 
high  court  one  day, 

And  his  liege-men  all  were  summoned  there,  du 
tiful  homage  to  pay. 

His  palace  was  built  of  veinless  blocks,  hewn  in 
the  frigid  zone, 

And  lit  with  a  gleam  of  rosy  light  from  an  Au 
rora  thrown. 

His  sea-green  throne  was  a  frozen  wave  brought 
from  the  northern  pole, 

Which  seemed  with  its  gleaming  crest  congealed 
ere  it  had  ceased  to  roll. 

Drest  in  his  dazzling  robes  he  sat  in  his  council- 
chamber  wide, 

And  cast  on  its  strong  and  lofty  walls  a  glance  of 
haughty  pride: 

A  sceptre  of  ice  in  his  hand  he  held,  which  glit 
tered  with  many  a  gem; 

While  the  diamond  and  opal's  changing  light 
flashed  from  his  diadem. 

His  mantle  of  snow  around  him  fell  in  many  a 
spotless  fold, 


32  The  Triumph  of  Spring. 

With    an    edge    of    lace-work,    rich    and    light, 

wrought  by  the  Hoar-Frost  cold. 
He  smiled  as  his  warriors  round  him  came,  clad 

all  in  frozen  mail, 
Their  gleaming  swords  the  icicles  sharp — their 

darts  the  rattling  hail. 
There  stood  the  North- Wind,  wrapped  in  clouds, 

with  his  dark-forbidding  face, 
The  piercing  East- Wind,  clear  and  cold,  with  his 

subtle,  treach'rous  grace; 
And  there  was  the  still  and  silent  Sleet,  with  his 

armour  glittering  bright, 
And  the  stinging  Frost,  both  Black  and  Hoar, 

who  only  work  at  night. 

"My   children,"    he    said,    "my    liege-men   bold, 

hearken  to  my  command — 
Meddlesome  Spring  is  seeking  again  to  enter  my 

chosen  land ; 
When  first  she  stole  on  me  unawares  and  melted 

my  jewels  bright, 

I  swore  in  my  wrath  I  never  would  see  the  mis 
chievous,   troublesome   sprite ; 
What  care  I  for  her  bright  green  leaves,  her  buds 

and  flowers  so  gay? 
My  mantle  of  snow  and  my  icy  gems  are  lovelier 

far  than  they. 
And  sweeter,  too,   are  my   rushing  winds  with 

their  whistle  keen  and  sharp, 
Than  the  softest  notes  she  ever  drew  from  the 

strings  of  her  woodland  harp. 
Then  hang  my  jewels  on  every  bough,  and  let 

my  cold  winds  blow — 


The  Triumph  of  Spring.  33 

And,  lest  she  hide  in  the  bosom  of  earth,  go,  bury 

it  deep  in  snow. 
For  I'll  let  her  know  a  king  am  I  whom  none  dare 

disobey, 
In  fetters  of  ice  I'll  bind  her  fast  and  sweep  her 

flowers  away. 
And  if,  in  spite  of  my  solemn  oath,  she  seeks  an 

entrance  here, 
I  order  you  all  to  drive  her  forth  at  the  point  of 

sword  and  spear." 
They  bowed  them  low  at  his  behest,  for  he  was  a 

mighty  king, 
And  by  his  sceptre  each  one  swore  to  conquer 

treacherous  Spring. 
The  North-Wind  blew  his  rudest  blast  to  meet 

the  Southern  breeze, 
While  the  silent  Sleet,  as  the  rain-drops  fell,  with 

icicles  gemmed  the  trees. 
The  lowering  Snow-clouds  veiled  the  Sun,  lest 

Spring  should  lurk  in  his  ray, 
And  the  Hoar-Frost  sealed  the  earth  like  a  stone 

to  drive  her  thence  away : 
And  over  the  fields  a  pall  was  cast — a  pall  of 

whitest  snow — 

Beneath  whose  folds  all  life  was  chilled,  and  Na 
ture's  pulse  beat  low. 
And  when  from  his  throne,  on  the  wings  of  the 

storm,  the  Ice-King  forth  did  ride, 
He  saw  not  a  nook  in  all  the  land  where  he  fan 
cied  Spring  could  hide. 
Each  shrub,  and  tree,  and  blade  of  grass,  that 

peeped  from  the  snowy  pall, 


34  The  Triumph  of  Spring. 

Was  cased  in  a  sparkling  sheen  of  ice  that  the 

Sleet  had  laid  on  all. 
The  Sun  was  hid  by  a  murky  cloud  that  hung  like 

a  gathering  frown, 
And  the  air  was  filled  with  the  driving  snow,  that, 

ghost-like  floated  down; 
While  the  breast  of  earth  by  the  frost  was  raised, 

as  though  it  heaved  a  sigh 
For  the  genial  warmth  of  prisoned  Spring,  as  the 

frigid  king  rushed  by. 
"Ha !  ha !"  he  shouted  and  dashed  along,  "this, 

this  is  but  sport  to  me, 
The  beauties  of  Spring,  what  are  they,  I  pray,  to 

Winter's  boisterous  glee?" 
And  then  in  his  joy  he  tossed  the  snow  in  many  a 

drift  and  mound, 
Rattling  the  ice-boughs  till  they  cracked  and  fell 

to  the  frozen  ground. 
But  he  wearied  soon  of  such  stormy  sport,  and 

slept' in  his  palace  of  snow, 
"My  liege-men,"  he  said,  "can  conquer  Spring, 

for  they  hold  all  above  and  below." 

For  a  while  fast  bound  in  a  chain  of  ice  the  deft- 
fingered  fairy  lay, 

But  she  silently  kissed  each  frozen  link  till  she 
melted  them  all  away : 

With  timid  steps  she  slowly  moved,  till  in  every 
warrior's  breast 

Suspicion  of  her  near  approach  was  wholly  lulled 
to  rest. 

Then,  with  gentle  wiles  each  foe  she  plies  till  the 
West- Winds  gently  play, 


The  Triumph  of  Spring.  35 

And  the  Snow-clouds  melt  before  their  breath,  or, 
spirit-like  float  away. 

The  silent  Sleet  next  owns  her  power,  and  lets  his 
ice-darts  fall, 

As  gently  from  the  frozen  earth  she  draws  its 
snowy  pall ; 

The  Frost  no  longer  seals  its  breast,  the  fruit- 
trees  burst  in  bloom. 

While  the  meek-eyed  violet  lifts  its  head  and 
sighs  a  sweet  perfume. 

But  alas !  one  day  in  her  earnest  zeal  she  bade  the 
Zephyrs  blow, 

And  their  balmy  breath  was  wafted  on  to  the  Ice- 
King's  home  of  snow. 

'What,  ho !'"  he  cried,  and  started  up,  "I  felt  the 
breath  of  Spring, 

The  lazy  Zephyrs  fan  my  brow,  and  birds  begin 
to  sing." 

Then  he  called  for  the  treach'rous  East-Wind 
cold,  and  swept  the  startled  land, 

Till  the  Hoar-Frost  worked  and  the  rain-drops 
fell  once  more  at  his  command. 

His  ice-clad  warriors  rose  from  sleep  at  his  rat 
tling  chariot's  sound. 

They  waved  their  gleaning  swords  on  high  and 
scattered  their  arrows  round: 

They  shook  the  trees  till  the  blossoms  fell  before 
their  stormy  wrath, 

And  strewed  them  with  their  icy  breath  in  the 
angry  monarch's  path. 

The  Hoar-Frost  stamped  on  the  springing  grass 
and  seared  its  tender  blade ; 


36  The  Triumph   of  Spring. 

And  the  shivering  mock-bird  hushed  his  note,  of 

the  driving  blast  afraid. 
How  often  thus  by  Death's  cold  hand  our  joys 

are  snatched  away, 
While    by    his    breath    our    bursting   hopes    are 

blighted  in  a  day ! 
Yet  the  wounded  heart  can  better  bear  affliction's 

stormy  night 
Than  the  lingering  death  its  love  must  die  if  cold 

indifference  blight. 
But  rouse  ye!  hearts  who  mourn  o'er  this,  take 

courage  from  the  fay, 
And  strive,  like  her,  by  loving  wiles  to  melt  the 

frost  away. 
She  had  bravely  fought  'gainst  sleet  and  snow, 

the  driving  hail  and  rain ; 
She   had   stilled   the  North-Wind's   rudest  blast 

and  melted  his  icy  chain. 
With  her  balmy  breath  and  her  sunny  smile  she 

worked  with  right  good  will, 
Though  the  Hoar-Frost  keen  in  the  silent  night 

did  terrible  mischief  still. 
Around  her  steps  lay  blighted  buds  and  withered 

leaf  and  flower, 

Yet  she  bravely  said :  "I'll  never  yield  to  the  Ice- 
King's  cruel  power; 
For  I'll  hie  me  away  to  his  frozen  court  in  my 

robe  of  brightest  green, 
And  I'll  melt  his  heart  with  such  tender  love 

he'll  woo  me  for  his  queen."  l 

The  Ice-King  sat  on  his  emerald  throne — drest 
in  his  robes  of  state, 


The  Triumph  of  Spring.  37 

But  his  warriors  saw  his  heart  was  filled  with 

wrath  and  vengeful  hate. 
With  a  withering  glance  of  rage  and  scorn  he 

turned  to  where  they  stood, 
"And  so,"  he  cried,  "the  fairy  Spring  has  made 

her  entrance  good ; 
Did  I  not  bid  ye  ward  to  keep,  and  guard  'gainst 

each   device — 
To  bind  her  fast  to  the  breast  of  Earth  with  an 

adamant  chain  of  ice? 
Ye  are  faithless  servants,  one  and  all,  and  I  trust 

you  now  no  more, 
But  I  myself,  both  night  and  day,  will  guard  my 

palace  door." 
Slowly  they  turned  and  moved  away,  they  could 

not  meet  his  look, 
For  a  deadly  languor  o'er  them  crept,  and  all 

like  cowards  shook. 
But  all  unmoved  the  angry  king  walked  slowly 

up  and  down, 
And  dark  and  vengeful  were  his  thoughts  and 

terrible  his  frown; 
He  swore  in  an  iceberg,  strong  and  cold,  he'd 

prison  the  mischievous  fay, 
And  bind  it  fast  to  the  northern  pole,  out  of  the 

reach  of  day. 
Like    muttering    thunder — deep,    not    loud — his 

sounding  curses  rolled 
Through  his  spacious  courts,  his  vacant  halls,  his 

corridors  lone  and  cold. 
But  hark !   a  murmuring  sound   he  hears,   with 

distant  music  low: 


38  The  Triumph  of  Spring. 

Can  it  be  the  song  of  triumph  raised  by  the  con 
queror  of  his  foe? 

As  he  strode  through  his  lonely  silent  halls  to 
fling  the  portal  wide 

He  little  dreamed  she  was  smiling  there — just 
on  the  other  side! 

But  he  knew  her  not  when  he  saw  her  stand — a 
maiden  young  and  fair, 

With  the  dewy  buds  of  the  pink  moss-rose 
twined  in  her  golden  hair; 

In  her  little  hand  a  harp  she  bore,  and  the  music 
from  its  strings 

Was  the  joyous  songs  of  the  forest  bird  and  the 
hum  of  the  wild  bee's  wings. 

Like  sporting  Cupids  by  her  side,  attendant 
Zephyrs  danced, 

And  the  rugged  king  forgot  his  wrath  and  stood 
like  one  entranced. 

Meekly  to  him  she  raised  her  eyes,  of  the  deep 
est  violet  blue, 

While  a  mantling  blush  stole  o'er  her  cheek  like 
the  sunset's  rosy  hue ; 

"I  come,"  she  said,  "from  a  distant  land  whence 
I  fled  from  a  mighty  foe; 

A  refuge  I  seek  in  your  icy  courts  and  palace  of 
sparkling  snow." 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  the  monarch  said,  "a  beauti 
ful  thing  art  thou, 

With  thy  velvet  robe  of  living  green  and  the 
flowers  upon  thy  brow; 

And  it  may  be  our  foe's  the  same — the  mischiev 
ous  fairy  Spring — 


The  Triumph  of  Spring.  39 

But  she's  worse,  by  far,  than  e'er  I  dreamed,  to 

harm  such  a  tender  thing. 
Nay,  shrink  not,  fair  one,  from  my  touch,"  he 

said,  and  kissed  her  brow, 
''Thou  hast  sought  a  home  in  my  icy  courts — a 

home  and  a  heart  hast  thou." 
And  as  he  gazed  on  the  lovely  sprite  his  heart 

began  to  glow, 

For  love  sprang  up  in  his  frozen  breast  like  vio 
lets  in  the  snow : 
The   gentle   Zephyrs   from   his   dress,   unheeded, 

plucked  each  gem, 
They  bore  his  sceptre  of  ice  away  and  reft  his 

diadem ; 
He  did  not  see  his  palace  walls  were  melting  fast 

away, 
He   gazed   alone    with    passionate   love   on   that 

bright  and  sparkling  fay. 
She  nestled  close  to  his  frozen  heart,  its  haughty 

pride  to  melt, 
Till  he  led  her  gently  to  his  throne  and  at  her 

footstool  knelt. 
"Joy,  joy!"  she  cried,  "I've  triumphed  now,  the 

Ice-King  kneels  to  Spring!" 
He  said  not  a  word,  but  he  bowed  him  low  to 

the  tiny  radiant  thing. 


4O  The    Fairies'    Dance. 


THE  FAIRIES'  DANCE. 

"The  Fairies'  Dance"  appeared  in  "Wood-Notes,"  al 
ready  alluded  to. 

Who  could  have  been  so  apt  a  chronicler,  save  a 
Fancy  born  and  nurtured  in  fairy-land,  imbued  with 
the  spirit  and  familiar  with  the  associations  of  its 
people  ? 

How  oft  in  the  days  of  my  childhood  I  read 
Those  wonderful  tales  of  the  Fays  and  their 

Queen, 

And  heartily  envied  the  lives  that  they  led, 
For  I  firmly  believed  in  their  dance  on  the 

green. 

Ah,  well  I  remember  that  soft  night  in  June, 
When    having    discovered    their    ring    in    the 

grass, 
Methought  I  would  watch  by  the  light  of  the 

moon, 

And  see  if  such  wonders  would  still  come  to 
pass. 

As  I  opened  my  window  and  gazed  on  the  night, 
How  lovely  the  vision  that  greeted  my  eye! 
The  leaves  and  the  flowers  were  bathed  in  soft 
light, 


The    Fairies'    Dance.  41 

While  the  "tears  of  the  Angels"  were  spark 
ling  on  high. 
The  Genius  of  Darkness  in  silence  reposed, 

As  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  moonlight  he  lay, 
For  gently  the  wings  of  the  Giant  had  closed 
Beneath  the  soft  touch  of  that  bright  silver 
ray. 


Ah !  bright  were  the  fancies  that  danced  thro'  my 

brain, 

As  I  eagerly  counted  the  stroke  of  the  clock, 

And  hoped  that  my  vigil  would  not  be  in  vain, 

But  the  Fairies  would  dance  till  the  crowing 

of  cock. 

I  listened — all  nature  lay  hushed  in  repose, 
When  gently  there  stole  from  the  bosom  of 

earth 

A  strain  of  low  music  that  swelled  as  it  rose, 
Till  it  seemed  the  outpouring  of  gladness  and 
mirth. 


At  the  sound  of  this  music  the  flowers  awoke, 

I  saw  their  bright  cups  in  a  moment  expand, 
When,  lo !  from  these  cells  there  suddenly  broke, 

As  freed  by  some  magic,  a  gay  Fairy  band. 
From  the  depth  of  each  blossom  there  came  a 
fair  elf, 

Whom  safe  in  its  petals  it  guarded  by  day, 
And  kept  closely  prisoned  in  spite  of  itself, 

Till  their  Queen  gave  the  elfins  permission  to 
play. 


42  The    Fairies'    Dance. 

I  watched  a  pure  Lily  its  white  petals  spread, 
I  marked  thje  long  tube  of  the  Woodbine  un 
close, 
And  forth  from  their  centre  whence  perfume  is 

shed, 
The    Queen    and    her    lovely    young   maidens 

arose. 
Every  prison  now  opened,  and  out  they  came 

streaming 
From  the  cells  of  each  flower  that  bloomed  in 

my  view ; 

The  air  in  an  instant  with  Fairies  was  teeming, 
Who  all  of  them  merrily  sung  as  they  flew. 

"Oh,  the  fair  moon  is  up,  by  her  slivery  light, 

We  Fairies  may  merrily  dance  on  the  green, 
She  hath  bound  in  slumber  the  Genius  of  night, 

And  high  in  the  heavens  is  reigning  a  queen. 
Then  Fairies  away,  'tis  the  hour  for  play, 

For  laughter  and  gladness,  for  dance  and  for 

song, 
We'll  be  merry  and  gay,  till  the  break  of  the  day, 

If  haply  old  Darkness  shall  slumber  so  long." 

From  the  tuft  of  the  scarlet  Verboena  they  sped, 
From  the  bud  of  the  Fox-glove  all  spangled 

with  dew, 
Like  a  cloud  they  arose  from  the  Mignonette 

bed, 
From  the  teeth  of  the  Fly-trap  they  gallantly 

flew. 

From  the  leaves  of  the  Rose,  from  the  Violet's 
cell, 


The    Fairies'    Dance.  43 

From  the  depths  of  the  Fuchsia  they  merrily 

sprang, 
They  were  hid  'mid  the  sweets  of  the  Jessamine's 

bell, 
And  seemed  on  the  Bachelor's  Button  to  hang. 

They  looked  like  the  rapidly  changing  shade 

Of  the  Rainbow's  light  in  a  summer  shower, 
Or  the  mingling  hues  by  the  sunset  made, 

For  each  was  the  tint  of  its  favorite  flower. 
As  butterflies  oft  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 

Upon  the  cool  bank  of  some  rivulet  sport, 
I  marked  to  the  ring  they  all  fluttered  away, 

Where  high  in  the  midst  the  Queen  held  her 
court. 

For  hours  I  watched  them,  as  round  an  old  oak 
They  danced  to  the  sound  of  that  heart-stirring 

strain, 
Till  growing  too  noisy,  old  Darkness  awoke, 

And  chid  them  all  back  to  their  flowers  again. 
In  anger  the  Giant  arose  from  his  rest, 

And  from  him  his  mantle  of  moonlight  he  cast, 
Then  frowned  on  the  Moon  till  she  sank  in  the 

west, 

For  she  knew  that  her  hour  of  triumph  was 
past. 

Ah,  yes,  it  was  ended,  and  Darkness  again 
Spread  over  the  earth  his  broad  wings  for  a 

while, 
Till  the  goddess  of  Morn,  as  she  rose  o'er  the 

plain, 


44  The    Fairies'    Dance. 

Dispelled  all  his  gloom  by  the  light  of  her 

smile. 
She  dried  up  the  tears  of  the  Fairies  that  fell 

In  drops  of  fresh  dew  on  the  flowers  around, 
And  I  said  in  my  heart  as  I  bade  them  farewell, 
I'm  glad  that  I  know  where  the  Fairies  are 
found. 


Shadows.  45 


SHADOWS. 

There  are  moments  of  sadness  in  life, 

When  silently  over  me  fall 
Forebodings  of  sorrow  and  strife — 

Dim  shadows  far-reaching  and  tall. 

Are  they  warnings  of  trouble  before, 
Thus  vaguely  and  faintly  defined, 

Or  hauntings  of  that  which  is  o'er, 
Yet  leaveth  its  shadow  behind? 

Why  hath  not  the  feeling  a  name? 

In  tear-drops  it  seeketh  relief, 
But,  oh,  it  is  never  the  same 
As  sadness  that  cometh  with  grief. 

It  is  not  that  darkness  abiding, 
When  the  spirit  in  battle  must  cope 

With  sorrow,  whose  banner  is  hiding 
The  star-light  that  shineth  from  hope; 

When  the  heart  its  own  bitterness  knows, 
But  keepeth  it  secret  from  all, 

Though  the  torrent  of  feeding  o'erflows, 
And  tears  of  hot  anguish  will  fall. 


46  Shadows. 

Does  it  come  like  a  bugle-note  citing 
The  spirit  to  arm  for  a  fight — 
The  gray  clasp  of  twilight  uniting 

Joy's  sunshine  with  sorrow's  dark  night? 

Or  is  it  a  solemn-toned  chant, 

And  not  the  vague  warnings  of  grief — 
The  dew  that's  distilled  on  the  plant — 

Not  the  frost  that  discolors  the  leaf? 

I  know  not,  but  fain  would  believe, 

The  feeling  betokens  no  ill, 
But  comes  the  full  heart  to  relieve, 

And  bid  the  flushed  spirit  be  still. 

And  when  on  my  pathway  it  falls 

The  warning  shall  not  be  in  vain, 
But  the  voice  of  an  angel  that  calls 
My  soul  to  its  duties  again. 


The    Rain   upon   the   Hills.  47 


THE  RAIN  UPON  THE  HILLS. 

An  inspiration  from  the  infinite  depths  of  a  moth 
er's  heart,  tender  in  its  conception,  chastely  simple  in 
its  expression.  No  one  can  read  it  without  emotion, 
or  rest  satisfied  to  read  it  only  once. 

Though  'tis  raining  on  the  hills,  love, 

'Tis  raining  on  the  hills, 
Not  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  love, 

The  smiling  valley  fills. 
See  how  the  sunlight  falls,  love, 
As  though  it  loved  to  rest 

Upon  that  youthful  mother,  love, 

Her  first-born  on  her  breast. 


She  cares  not  for  the  world,  love, 

Its  pleasures  or  its  wealth, 
She  thinks  but  of  her  child,  love, 

His  happiness  and  health. 
Life's  sorrows  are  to  her,  love, 

But  rain  upon  the  hills, 
While  the  sunlight  of  that  babe,  love, 

Her  happy  bosom  fills. 


48  The    Rain   upon   the   Hills. 

But  see,  the  cloud  rolls  on,  love, 

'Tis  deep'ning  all  the  while: 
And 'the  sunlight  from  the  vale,  love, 

Is  fading  like  a  smile; 
Is   fading  like  a  smile,  love, 

That's  followed  by  despair, 
When  the  idols  of  the  heart,  love, 
Are   vanishing   in  air. 

The  frightened  mother  starts,  love, 

And  clasps  her  baby  now : 
For  she  seeth  that  a  shade,  love, 

Is  gath'ring  o'er  his  brow. 
She  is  weeping  o'er  her  child,  love, 

'Tis  raining  in  the  vale — 
Life  struggleth  now  with  death,  love, 

God  grant  he  may  prevail. 

The  cloud  has  passed  away,  love, 

The  sun  is  shining  bright; 
And  that  mother's  trembling  heart,  love, 

Rejoiceth  in  the  light — 
But  the  mem'ry  of  that  storm,  love, 

Her  bosom  ever  fills, 
And  she  feareth  for  the  vale,  love, 

When  'tis  raining  on  the  hills. 


Nuptial  Hymn  of  the  Greeks.        49 


NUPTIAL     HYMN     OF     THE     GREEKS. 

This  translation  from  Lamartine,  although  written 
earlier,  appeared  during  the  year  1866  in  a  collection 
of  poems  by  Mrs.  Clarke,  entitled,  "Mosses  from  a 
Rolling  Stone;  or,  Idle  Moments  of  a  Busy  Woman." 

Exquisite  delicacy  of  sentiment  was  never  robed 
in  lines  of  sweeter  rhythmic  flow.  Its  words  linger  in 
the  heart  like  the  close  of  melody  of  which  we  ask,  as 
Illyria's  Duke, 

"That    strain    again." 

Scatter,  scatter  narcissus  and  roses 
Over  the  couch  where  beauty  reposes ! 

Wherefore  weep'st  thou,  dark-eyed  daughter? 

'Tis  no  day  for  tears  and  gloom, 
Like  a  lily  o'er  the  water, 

Bending  with  its  sweet  perfume, 
Hangs  thy  head  as  o'er  thee  flushes 
Love's  bright  glow  in  rosy  blushes. 

Scatter,  scatter  narcissus  and  roses 
Over  the  couch  where  beauty  reposes. 
'Tis  thy  lover  thou  dost  hear, 

Take  the  ring  that  seals  his  flame, 
Wear  it  without  doubt  or  fear, 
Trembling  but  with  maiden  shame. 


50        Nuptial  Hymn  of  the  Greeks. 

If  thy  love  burns  in  his  soul, 

There  't  will  glow  while  this  is  whole. 

Scatter,  scatter  narcissus  and  roses 
Over  the  couch  where  .beauty  reposes. 
In  thy  hand  the  torch  is  burning 

Sacred  unto  nuptial  bliss, 
Let  thy  heart  so  fondly  yearning, 
Feed  a  flame  as  pure  as  this; 
Shedding  e'er  its  sweet  perfume 
O'er  life's  pathway  to  the  tomb. 

Scatter,  scatter  narcissus  and  roses 
Over  the  couch  where  beauty  reposes. 
Crowned  kids  around  are  playing 

By  young  maidens  brought  to  thee, 
Like  them,  in  the  meadow  straying 

Soon  thy  children  thou  shalt  see, 
New-born  joys  that  crown  the  life 
Of  the  mother  and  the  wife. 

Scatter,  scatter  narcissus  and  roses 
Over  the  couch  where  beauty  reposes. 
In  the  valley  wreath  the  myrtle 

That  shall  shade  thy  infant's  head, 
Learn  the  cooing  of  the  turtle 

As  thou  mak'st  his  little  bed; 
In  the  summer's  golden  prime 
Ready  make  for  harvest  time. 

Scatter,  scatter  narcissus  and  roses 
Over  the  couch  where  beauty  reposes. 


Nuptial  Hymn  of  the  Greeks.        51 

Canst  them  murmur  like  the  water 

As  it  ripples  o'er  the  stones? 
Woman  is  but  nature's  daughter — 

Let  her  learn  her  mother's  tones. 
Practice  now  the  notes  that  best 
Lull  the  infant  to  its  rest. 


52  Aphrodite. 


APHRODITE. 

Aphrodite!  The  tale  is  old,  but  it  is  here  given  to 
us  fresh  and  fair  as  a  rose  freighted  with  the  dew  of 
the  morning. 

'Twas  in  the  Spring-time  of  the  world, 

The  sun's  red  banners  were  unfurled, 

And  slanting  rays  of  golden  light 

Just  kissed  the  billows  tipped  with  white, 

And  through  the  water's  limpid  blue 

Flashed  down  to  where  the  sea-weed  grew; 

While  rainbow  hues  of  every  shade 

Across  the  restless  surface  played. 

Then,  as  the  rays  grew  stronger  still, 

They  sought  the  sea-girt  caves  to  fill, 

And  sparkled  on  the  treasures  rare, 

That  all  unknown  were  hidden  there. 

Roused  by  their  warm  electric  kiss 

The  ocean  thrilled  with  wak'ning  bliss, 

Its  gasping  sob  and  heaving  breast 

The  power  of  in-born  life  confest. 

But,  though  their  waves  were  tossed  ashore, 

Upon  their  crests  no  life  they  bore. 

Deep  hidden  in  its  darkest  cave, 
Unmoved  by  current,  wind  or  wave, 
A  purple  shell  of  changing  shade, 
By  nature's  careful  hand  was  laid; 


Aphrodite.  53 

The  clinging  sea-weed,  green  and  brown, 
With  fibrous  grasp  still  held  it  down 
Despite  the  water's  restless  flow ; 
But  when  they  caught  that  deep'ning  glow 
They  flushed  with  crimson,  pink  and  gold, 
And  from  the  shell  unclasped  their  hold. 
Its  shadowy  bonds  thus  drawn  aside, 
It  upward  floated  on  the  tide; 
But  still  its  valves  refused  to  yield, 
And  still  its  treasure  was  concealed. 

Close  shut  upon  the  waves  it  lay 

Till  warmly  kissed  by  one  bright  ray, 

When  lo !  its  pearly  tips  unclose, 

As  ope  the  petals  of  the  rose ; 

And  pure  and  fresh  as  morning  dew 

Fair  Aphrodite  arose  to  view. 

First — like  a  startled  child  amazed — 

On  earth,  and  air,  and  sea  she  gazed, 

Then  shook  the  wavy  locks  of  gold 

That  o'er  her  neck  and  bosom  rolled, 

Loosened  the  cestus  on  her  breast, 

'Gainst  which  her  throbbing  heart  now  prest; 

For  ah!  its  clasp  could  not  restrain 

The  new-born  life  that  thrilled  each  vein, 

Flushed  to  her  rosy  fingers'  tips, 

And  deeply  dyed  her  parted  lips, 

Spread  o'er  her  cheek  its  crimson  glow 

And  tinged  her  heaving  bosom's  snow. 

Conscious  of  beauty  and  its  power 

She  owns  the  influence  of  the  hour. 

Instinct  with  life  attempts  to  rise, 

Her  quick-drawn  breath  melts  into  sighs, 


54  Aphrodite. 

Her  half-closed  eyes  in  moisture  swim, 
And  languid  droops  each  rounded  limb; 
With  yielding  grace  her  lovely  head 
Sinks  back  upon  its  pearly  bed, 
Where  changing  shades  of  pink  attest 
The  spot  her  glowing  cheeks  hath  prest. 
There  all  entranced  she  silent  lay, 
Borne  on  'mid  showers  of  silvery  spray, 
Which  caught  the  light  and  backward  fell 
In  sparkling  diamonds  round  her  shell. 
Thus  wafted  by  the  western  breeze, 
Cythera's  flowery  isle  she  sees; 
Its  spicy  odors  round  her  float, 
And  thither  glides  her  purple  boat; 
And,  when  its  prow  had  touched  the  land, 
There  stepped  upon  the  golden  sand 
With  life,  and  love,  and  beauty  warm, 
A  perfect  woman's  matchless  form. 

The  tale  is  old,  yet  always  new 
To  every  heart  which  proves  it  true; 
The  limpid  waters  of  the  soul 
In  snow-crowned  waves  of  feeling  roll, 
Until  love's  soft  pervading  light 
Has  unto  color  kissed  the  white 
And  in  its  deep  recesses  shown 
Rich  treasures  to  itself  unknown, 
Through  many  restless  sob  and  sigh 
Nor  ever  learn  the  reason  why; 
Whilst  others  wake  with  sudden  start 
To  feel  the  glow  pervade  their  heart, 
Flash  down  beneath  its  surface  swell 
And  shine  on  Passion's  purple  shell, 


Aphrodite.  55 

Change  to  the  rainbow's  varying  hue 
The  ties  it  may  not  rend  in  two; 
Till  doubts  and  fears  which  held  it  fast 
Beneath  love's  glow  relax  their  grasp; 
Slowly  the  network  fades  away 
Like  fleecy  clouds  at  opening  day, 
And  Passion  woke  by  warmth  and  light 
In  deep'ning  shades  springs  into  sight. 

But  man  the  shell  too  often  holds, 
Nor  sees  the  beauty  it  enfolds; 
Its  close  shut  valves  refuse  to  part 
And  show  the  depths  of  woman's  heart. 
And  tossing  on  life's  billows  high 
The  purple  shell  unoped  may  lie, 
Till  cast  on  Death's  cold,  rocky  shore, 
Its  life  and  longing  both  are  o'er. 
But  if  Love's  warm  entrancing  light 
Shall  kiss  the  parting  lips  aright, 
And  wake  to  life  the  beauty  rare 
Which  Nature's  self  hath  hidden  there, 
Beneath  his  soft  enraptured  smile 
'Tis  wafted  to  the  flowery  isle, 
An  Aphrodite  steps  ashore 
A  perfect  woman — nothing  more. 
SAN  ANTONIO,  January  I,  1861. 


56  Annie    Carter    Lee. 


ANNIE  CARTER  LEE. 

"Died,  at  Jones'  Springs,  Warren  County,  N.  ^C, 
October  20,  1862.  Annie  Carter  Lee,  daughter  of  Gen. 
Robert  E.  Lee,  C.  S.  A." 

"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust," 
Saviour,  in  thy  word  we  trust, 
Sow  we  now  our  precious  grain, 
Thou  shalt  raise  it  up  again. 
Plant  we  the  terrestrial  root 
Which  shall  bear  celestial  fruit, 
Lay  a  bud  within  the  tomb 
That  a  flower  in  Heaven  may  bloom. 
Severed  are  no  tender  ties, 
Though  in  Death's  embrace  she  lies, 
For  the  lengthened  chain  of  love 
Stretches  to  her  home  above. 
Mother,  in  thy  bitter  grief 
Let  this  thought  bring  sweet  relief— 
(Mother  of  an  angel  now,) 
God  Himself  hath  crowned  thy  brow 
With  the  thorns  the  Saviour  wore; 
Blessed  art  thou  evermore! 
Unto  Him  thou  dost  resign 
A  portion  of  the  life  was  thine. 
"Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust," 
Sore  the  trial,  sweet  the  trust. 


Annie    Carter    Lee.  57 

Father — thou  who   seest   Death 
Reaping  grain  at  every  breath, 
As  his  sickle  sharp  he  wields 
O'er  our  bloody  battlefields — 
Murmur  not  that  now  he  weaves 
This  sweet  flower  into  his  sheaves. 
Taken   in  her  early  prime, 
Gathered   in   the   summer   time, 
Autumn's  blast  she  shall  not  know, 
Never  shrink  from  winter's  snow. 
Sharp  the  pang  which  thou  must  feel, 
Sharper  than  the  foeman's  steel; 
For  thy  fairest  flower  is  hid 
Underneath  the  coffin's  lid. 
O'er  her  grave  thou  drop'st  no  tear, 
Warrior  stern  must  thou  appear, 
Crushing  back  the  tide  of  grief 
Which  in  vain  demands  relief. 
Louder  still  thy  country  cries, 
At  thy  feet  it  bleeding  lies, 
And  before  the  patriot  now 
Husband — Father — both  must  bow. 
But  unnumbered  are  thy  friends, 
And  from  many  a  home  ascends 
Earnest,  heartfelt  prayers  for  thee, 
"That  as  thy  days  thy  strength  may  be." 


58          The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal. 


THE  WATER-SPRITE'S  BRIDAL. 

Pride  might  justly  swell  the  heart  of  the  poet  who 
could  make  a  foray  into  the  fair  demesne  of  the  Imagi 
nation  and  return  laden  with  spoils  such  as  these ! 

The  Rio  San  Antonio  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
streams  in  Texas.  It  bursts  from  a  basin  of  white  lime 
stone,  twenty  feet  deep  and  nine  or  ten  in  circumfer 
ence,  the  irregular  sides  of  which  are  covered  to  the 
bottom  with  water-cresses  in  every  stage  of  vegetation, 
from  the  vivid  green  of  the  half-open  leaf  to  the  crim 
son  and  yellow  of  the  passing  one;  so  the  Spring, 
when  the  sun  shines  into  it,  seems  lined  with  a  tapestry 
of  jewels  woven  on  a  ground- work  of  silver.  Near 
it  may  generally  be  found  in  bloom  a  small  white  lily, 
as  fragrant  as  the  tube-rose,  which  springs  up  after 
every  shower,  and,  in  a  single  night,  will  cover  the 
prairie  as  the  stars  the  heavens.  Its  pure  white  chal 
ice  is  a  fit  emblem  of  the  perfect  love  shadowed  forth 
in  the  following  allegory : 

On  the  borders  of  a  river 

In   our  sunny   southern   land, 
Long  ago  a  fairy  princess 

Dwelt  with  her  attendant  band. 
Hidden   from  all  mortal  vision 

Was  each  tiny  elfin  shape, 
Seeming  now  a  darting  sunbeam 

'Mid  the  olive  and  the  grape: 


The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal.          59 

Now  a  sparkle  on  the  river 

As  it  gurgling  glides  along, 
Whilst  its  ever  murmuring  ripple 

Was  the  echo  of  their  song. 
Sporting  in  its  limpid  coolness 

If  they  splashed  the  water  high, 
It  was  but  the  cascade  foaming 

When  it  met  a  mortal's  eye; 
If  in  fairy  frolic  leaped  they 

From  the  river  in  their  play, 
Instantly  they  seemed  bright  rainbows 

Woven  in  the  dashing  spray. 
If  they  lurked  'mid  leafy  shadows 

Quivering  sumbeams  sparkled  there, 
If  they  danced  upon  the  meadow 

Dewy  fragrance  rilled  the  air. 
Lights  and  sounds  of  nature  were  they 

Unto  mortal  eye  and  ear, 
But  the  Water-Sprite  might  see  them 

In  their  fairy  forms  appear. 
Hid  behind  the  cascade's  curtain, 

Lurking  in  the  golden  sand, 
Peeping  from  some  mossy  crevice, 

Oft  he  watched  the  fairy  band. 
Carelessly  they  bathed  and  sported, 

All  unconscious  they  were  seen, 
Feeding  thus  his  glowing  passion 

For  their  loved  and  lovely  queen. 
Eagerly  he  watched  her  daily 

As  she  laid  her  robes  aside, 
And  with  her  attendant  maidens, 

Plunged  into  the  cooling  tide. 


60          The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal, 

There  each  day  she  longer  lingered 

Whilst  his  passion  stronger  grew, 
Till  he  almost  was  a  mortal 

In  the  suff'ring  that  he  knew. 
Now  with  rainbow  hopes  elated, 

Then  in  deep  and  black  despair 
Trembling  with  his  sweet  emotion, 

Swayed  by  trifles  light  as  air. 
Luring  her  with  wiles  most  loving 

To  the  shady  river  side, 
Rushing,  when  he  saw  her  coming, 

'Neath  the  lily  leaves  to  hide. 

But  one  day  the  fairy  came  not, 

In  the  meadow  did  not  stray, 
Though  he  listened,  watched  and  waited 

Through  a  long,  long  summer's  day. 
Bursting  then  each  fear  that  bound  him 

All    his    passion    uncontrolled 
Wildly  leaping  in  his  bosom, 

Through  his  veins  like  lava  rolled. 
Eagerly  he  sought  his  treasure 

All  along  the  river  side, 
Burning  now  to  tell  the  feeling 

Heretofore  he  sought  to  hide. 
In  a  wooded  dell  he  found  her 

Weeping  'neath  a  linden  tree, 
Not  a  thought  of  self  came  o'er  him 

As  he  slowly  bent  his  knee. 
"Who  hath  wounded  thee,  my  darling?" 

Were  the  words  that  from  him  burst — 
Not  his  passion,  but  her  sorrow — 

Stirred  his  gen'rous  spirit  first. 


The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal.          61 

Starting  from  him  in  amazement, 

Up   the   little   beauty   sprang, 
And  the  pride  of  all  her  lineage 

In  her  startled  accents  rang: 
"Wherefore  do  you  dare  to  seek  me 

When  I  fain  would  be  alone?" 
But  he  saw  surprise  was  struggling 

With  the  anger  of  her  tone. 
Lifted  were  the  gates  of  silence, 

Love,  like  wine,  now  made  him  bold, 
Wondering  at  his  former  shyness 

All  his  passion  then  he  told. 
Anger  vanished  as  she  listened, 

Trembling  with  a  new-born  bliss, 
Timidly  she  nestled  to  him 

And  returned  his  glowing  kiss. 
In  a  warm,  bright  stream,  electric 

To  her  lip  his  passion  thrilled, 
And  with  rosy  hues  advancing 

All   her  wakened  spirit  filled. 
Like   a   lily-bud   unfolding, 

In  the  flowery  month  of  May, 
To  his  love  her  soul  expanded 

As  upon  his  heart  she  lay. 
Love — the  pure  ethereal  passion — 

Wells  from  nature's  throbbing  heart, 
And,  though  mortals  quaff  it  deepest, 

Spirits  also  claim  a  part. 
With  its  joy  they  taste  its  sorrow, 

So  the  Wood-Nymph  and  the  Sprite 
Found  that  nature's  bright_  elixir 

Was  not  all  unmixed  delight. 


62          The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal. 

« 

Waking  from  his  blissful  reverie 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  low, 
"Wilt  thou  wed  with  me,  my  darling  ?" 

And  she  sighing  answers,  "No; 
Knowst  thou  not  that  woodland  fairies 

Only  wed  among  themselves? 
We  are  flowers,  and,  like  them,  wither 

If  we  mate  with  other  elves. 
Should  I  yield  me  to  thy  wooing 

I'd  no  longer  be  a  fay, 
Wedded  to  a  Water-Spirit 

All  my  power  would  fade  away." 
"But,"  he  pleaded,  "in  my  kingdom 

Thou  wilt  share  the  power  that's  mine, 
For  the  moment  that  I  clasp  thee 

Half  my  nature  melts  in  thine; 
Queen  of  both  the  land  and  water 

Shall  my  little  princess  reign, 
Neither  land  nor  Water-Spirit, 

But  a  mingling  of  the  twain." 

Thus  he  wooed — and  wooing  won  her; 

Doubts  and  fears  were  laid  aside, 
And  she  passed  into  the  river 

As  the  Water-Spirit's  bride. 
To  his  bosom  fondly  clinging 

Downward  from  the  light  of  day, 
Downward  from  the  sun  and  flowers, 

Sank  the  half  unconscious  fay; 
Down  to  where  earth's  deepest  fountains 

Bubbled  from  their  sands  of  gold, 
And  her  subterranean  rivers 

From  their  hidden  sources  rolled. 


The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal.  63 

Cold  and  dark  to  her  those  caverns. 

Which  to  him  were  warm  and  bright, 
And  but  half  a  Water-Spirit 

Soon  she  trembled  with  affright. 
Tenderly  he  soothed  and  cheered  her, 

Drew  her  closer  to  his  side, 
As  her  lingering  fairy  nature 

Vainly  she  essayed  to  hide. 
But  he  felt  it  quivering  in  her — 

Saw  his  bliss  to  her  was  pain, 
And  so  true  and  pure  his  passion 

That  he  bore  her  back  again. 
Then,  the  long  imprisoned  river 
Following  as  he  upward  went, 
With  a  mighty  leap  exultant 

Through  its  rocky  arches  rent — 
Rent  them  as  love  rends  the  fetters 

Prudence  doth  'gainst  passion  urge, 
When  the  glowing  waves  of  feeling 

In  a  mortal's  bosom  surge. 
Darkly  through  its  hidden  caverns 

Still  the  river  might  have  rushed, 
But  the  rock  by  love  was  smitten 

And  its  waters  outward  gushed. 
Onward,  upward,  bubbling,  gurgling 

In  a  silver  stream  they  rise, 
Till  in  sunlight  'mid  the  flowers 

Once  again  the  fairy  lies. 
Welling  from  a  rocky  basin, 

Shaded  by  o'erhanging  vines,     ; 
Peaceful  as  a  sleeping  infant 

Now  its  placid  water  shines. 


64          The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal. 

Thus — the  fairy  legend  telleth — • 

Yonder  lovely  river  first 
As  a  spirit's  bridal  chamber 

From  its  hidden  sources  burst; 
Not  for  it  the  small  beginning, 

"Winning  tribute  as  it  flows"— 
But  at  once,  in  perfect  being, 

Aphrodite-like  it  rose. 
Sacred  unto  Sprite  and  Fairy 

Still  its  lovely  birth-place  seems, 
And  the  sparkle  of  their  presence 

On  its  rippling  water  gleams. 
Rainbow  tints  are  o'er  it  glinting, 

Silver  rocks  around  it  shine, 
Whilst,  like  tapestry,  the  cresses 

All  its  inward  chambers  line. 
Every  hue  that  autumn  flingeth 

O'er  the  leaves  that  wave  in  air, 
Mingled  with  the  green  of  summer 

Have  the  Spirits  woven  there ; 
Shining  through  the  limpid  water 

Every  perfect  leaflet  bright 
Sparkles  like  a  brilliant  jewel, 

With  an  opalescent  light. 
Woodland  flowers  of  every  color 

Round  its  rocky  sides  are  hung, 
Whilst  o'er  all  a  misty  vapor 

Like  a  silver  veil  is  flung. 
Snowy  lilies  round  it  glisten, 

Shedding  fragrance  on  the  air, 
Emblems  of  the  tricksy  spirits 

Who  are  ever  hovering  there. 
'Almanitas,  I  have  named  them, 

For  its  meaneth  "little  fairy," 


The    Water-Sprite's    Bridal.  65 

And  like  Sprites  they  come  and  vanish 

From  the  bosom  of  the  prairie; 
Springing  after  every  shower 

In  all  seasons  of  the  year, 
Fresh  and  pure  as  crystal  dew-drops 

Do  their  starry  blooms  appear. 
Neither  land  nor  water  lilies 

But  a  mingling  of  the  twain, 
Seeming  from  the  clouds  descending 

In  the  falling  drops  of  rain. 
Like  a  shining  silver  ribbon 

Waving  in  a  gentle  breeze, 
Onward  glides  the  lovely  river 

Under  overhanging  trees, 
Sleeping  now  in  darkest  shadow 

Still  and  deep  its  water  flows, 
Flashing  like  ten  thousand  diamonds, 

Laughing,  leaping  on  it  goes — 
But  a  magic  spell  is  o'er  it, 

Haunting  all  its  winding  way 
With  the  mem'ry  of  that  wooing 

And  the  Spirit's  Bridal  Day. 


During  the  war  between  the  States  as  already  men 
tioned,  Mrs.  Clarke  wrote  many  patriotic  poems,  ex-' 
pressive  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  which  permeated 
Southern  homes,  and  which  served  to  maintain  the 
devotion  and  enthusiasm  of  the  Confederate  soldier 
in  the  field;  but  when  the  war  was  at  an  end,  she  for 
got  all,  save  its  blessed  memories  and  that  she  had 
tried  to  do  her  duty;  and  it  was  creditable  to  her  head 
and  heart,  that  in  the  volume  of  "Mosses  from  a  Roll 
ing  Stone,"  published  in  the  year  1866,  in  which  she 
collected  many  poems,  scattered  through  various  mag 
azines  and  newspapers,  she  did  not  republish  a  single 
line  reflecting  on  the  conduct  of  our  mighty  adversary 
as  a  mass,  or  individually,  but  preserved  the  silence 
that  gives  dignity  to  misfortune. 

It  may  be  pardonable,  however,  to  except  from  this 
class  of  her  writings,  the  two  following  poems,  as  they 
will  amuse  without  awakening  resentment." 


Stonewall's    Resignation. 


STONEWALL'S  RESIGNATION. 

A  Yankee  soliloquy  before  the  first  battle  of  Frcd« 
ericksburg. 

Well!  we  can  whip  them  now,  I  guess, 

If  Stonewall  has  resigned; 
General  Lee  in  "Fighting  Burnside," 

More  than  his  match  will  find. 
We've  done  with  slow  McClellan, 

Who  kept  us  digging  dirt, 
And  now  are  "on  to  Richmond," 

Where  "some  one  will  be  hurt." 
Again  around  the  rebels 

The  anaconda  coils, 
And  east  and  west  and  north  and  south 

We  have  them  in  our  toils. 
We'd  have  beat  them  at  Manassas 

If  McDowell  had  not  slipt, 
When  he  tried  to  leap  this  Stonewall 

Who  don't  know  when  he's  whipt. 
We'd  have  laid  them  in  the  Valley 

So  low  they  could  not  rise, 
But  Banks  must  run  against  it 

And  spill  all  his  supplies. 


68  Stonewall's    Resignation. 

But  if  that  fool,  Jeff  Davis, 

Has  let  Stonewall  resign, 
We  can  go  on  to  Richmond 

By  the  Rappahannock  line. 
But  they  say  he's  a  shrewd  fellow, 

Who  knows  a  soldier  well, 
He  stood  by  Sydney  Johnston 

Until  in  death  he  fell; 
"If  Johnston  is  no  General, 

Then,  gentlemen,  I've  none," 
He  said  to  those  who  grumbled 

When  Donelson  we  won ; 
And  I  don't  believe  that  Jackson's 

Resignation  he'll  accept — 
Hello! — a  rebel  picket — 

How  close  the  rascal  crept! 
"Say !  Johnny,  is  it  true 

That  Jackson  has  resinged?" 
"Well ! — Yes — I  reckon  so — 

Heard  some'n  of  the  kind." 
"What  for?  Did  old  Jeff.  Davis 

Put  a  'sub'  above  his  head?" 
"No,  they  took  away  his  commissary— 

So  I've  heard  it  said." 
"Well!   we  are  glad  to  hear  it, 

And  will  tender  them  our  thanks. 
But  who  was  Jackson's  commissary?" 

"Your  Major  General  Banks." 
"Confound  your  rebel  impudence! 

He'd  be  very  smart,  indeed, 
If  from  supplies  for  one  intended 

TWO  armies  he  could  feed," 


The    Rebel    Sock.  69 


THE  REBEL  SOCK. 

A  true   episode  in  Seward's  raid  on  the  old  ladies 
of  Maryland. 

In  all  the  pomp  and  pride  of  war 

The  Lincolnite  was  drest, 
High  beat  his  patriotic  heart 

Beneath  his  armor'd  vest. 
His  maiden  sword  hung  by  his  side, 

His  pistols  both  were  right, 
The  shining  spurs  were  on  his  heels, 

His  coat  was  buttoned  tight. 
A  firm  resolve  sat  on  his  brow, 

For  he  to  danger  went; 
By  Seward's  self  that  day  he  was 

On  secret  service  sent. 
"Mount  and  away,"  he  sternly  cried, 

Unto  the  gallant  band, 
Who,  all  equipped  from  head  to  heel, 

Awaited  his  command; 
"But  halt,  my  boys — before  you  go, 

These  solemn  words  I'll  say, 
Lincoln  expects  that  every  man 

His  duty  '11  do  to-day," 


70  The    Rebel    Sock. 

"We  will,  we  will,"  the  soldiers  cried, 

"The  President  shall  see, 
That  we  will  only  run  away 

From   Jackson  or   from   Lee." 
And  now  they're  off,  just  four-score  men, 

A  picked  and  chosen  troop, 
And  like  a  hawk  upon  a  dove, 

On  Maryland  they  swoop. 
From  right  to  left — from  house  to  house, 

The  little  army  rides ; 
In  every  lady's  wardrobe  look 

To  see  what  there  she  hides. 
They  peep  in  closets,  trunks  and  drawers, 

Examine  every  box; 
Not  rebel  soldiers  now  they  seek, 

But  rebel  soldiers'  socks! 
But  all  in  vain ! — too  keen  for  them, 

Were  those  dear  ladies  there, 
And  not  a  sock,  or  flannel  shirt 

Was  taken  anywhere. 
The  day  wore  on  to  afternoon, 

That  warm  and  drowsy  hour, 
When  Nature's  self  doth  seem  to  feel 

A  touch  of  Morpheus'  power; 
A  farm-house  door  stood  open  wide, 

The  men  were  all  away, 
The  ladies  sleeping  in  their  rooms, 

The  children  at  their  play; 
The  house-dog  lay  upon  the  step, 

But  never  raised  his  head, 
Though  crackling  on  the  gravel  walk, 

He  heard  a  stranger's  tread. 


The    Rebel    Sock.  71 

Old  grandma  in  her  rocking  chair 

Sat  knitting  in  the  hall, 
When  suddenly  upon  her  work 

A  shadow  seemed  to  fall. 
She  raised  her  eyes  and  there  she  saw 

Our  Federal  hero  stand, 
His  little  cap  was  on  his  head, 

His  sword  was  in  his  hand. 
Slowly  the  dear  old  lady  rose, 

And  tottering,  forward  came, 
And  peering  dimly  through  her  "specs," 

Said,  "Honey !  what's  your  name  ?" 
Then,  as  she  raised  her  withered  hand, 

To  pat  his  sturdy  arm, 
"There's  no  one  here  but  Grandmama 

And  she  won't  do  you  harm. 
Come,  take  a  seat,  and  don't  be  scared, 

Put  up  your  sword,  my  child, 
I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world," 

She  gently  said,  and  smiled. 
"Madam,  my  duty  must  be  done 

And  I  am  firm  as  rock," 
Then,  pointing  to  her  work,  he  said, 

"Is  that  a  rebel  sock?" 
"Yes,  Honey,  I  am  getting  old 

And  for  hard  work  ain't  fit, 
Though   for  Confederate  soldiers,  still, 

I  thank  the  Lord,  can  knit." 
"Madam,  your  work  is  contraband 
.  And  Congress  confiscates 
This  rebel  sock,  which  I  now  seize 

To  the  United  States." 


72  The    Rebel    Sock. 

"Yes,  Honey — don't  be  scared — you  see 

I'll  give  it  up  to  you." 
Then  slowly  from  the  half-knit  sock 

The  dame  her  needles  drew, 
Broke  off  the  thread,  wound  up  the  ball 

And  stuck  her  needles  in; 
"Here — take  it,  child — and  I  to-night 

Another  will  begin." 
The  soldier  next  his  loyal  heart 

The  dear-bought  trophy  laid, 
And  that  was  all  that  Seward  got 

By  this  old  woman's  raid. 


The  Tenth  of  May,   1866.  73 


THE  TENTH  OF  MAY,  1866. 

Lines  suggested  by  the  address  of  Seaton  Gales  to 
the  Ladies  of  Raleigh  on  the  anniversary  of  the  death 
of  Stonewall  Jackson. 

Oh!  shed  not  a  tear  for  the  hero  who  died 

When  the  flag  of  his  country  was  flying, 
But  scatter  with  lilies  and  roses  the  grave 

Where  he  slumbers  in  glory  undying. 
He  knew  not  the  sorrow  the  vanquished  must 
feel 

The  grief  of  a  fruitless  endeavor, 
The  heart-breaking  pang  when  the  struggle  was 
o'er, 

And  that  banner  was  folded  forever! 

Keep  tears  for  the  nation  that,  conquered  and 

ruined, 

Can  lay  o'er  its  heroes  no  tablets  of  stone, 
Though  it  writes  every  one  on  the  true  heart 

of  woman, 

Which  feels  that  our  soldiers  are  never  un 
known, 


74  The  Tenth  of  May,   1866. 

Oh !  then,  let  us  make  a  fragrant  ovation 

In  honor  of  Jackson,  the  ides  of  each  May, 
And  with  roses  that  bloomed  as  a  hero  lay  dying 
Wreathe  over  the  graves  of  his  comrades  that 

day. 
That  their  mem'ry  like  spring-time,  forever  may 

be 

Embalmed  in  the  fragrance  of  flowers, 
And  their  graves  to  the  hearts  of  our  children 

unborn 
Be  as  dear  as  they  now  are  to  oursl 


The  Chimes  of  St.  Paul's.  75 


THE  CHIMES  OF  ST.  PAUL'S. 

The  chimes  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  Petersburg,  were 
presented  by  a  young  lady  of  that  place,  Miss  Anna 
May,  when  on  her  death-bed;  and  though  uninjured 
by  the  shot  and  shell  which  struck  the  church,  were 
not  rung  during  the  bombardment,  except  at  the  fune 
rals  of  the  militia-men  who  fell  early  in  the  siege. 

When  first,  St.  Paul's,  your  sweet-toned  chimes 

Shed  music  on  the  air, 
They  seemed  an  angel's  pleading  voice, 

Which  called  us  unto  prayer. 
An  angel  who  had  left  this  earth 

To  sing  a  Heavenly  strain, 
But  in  the  music  of  your  bells 

Spoke  unto  us  again. 
Now  loud  and  clear,  then  low  and  sweet, 

You  touched  each  listener's  heart, 
Till  every  rising — falling  note 

Seemed  of  its  life  a  part. 
You  rang  a  clear,  a  joyous  peal 

The  blushing  bride  to  meet, 
Then  let  your  softest,   sweetest  notes 

The  baptized  infant  greet. 
You  rang  a  sad,  a  solemn  dirge 

The  mourner's  grief  to  tell, 
Then  let  the  ransomed  spirit's  joy 

A  glorious  anthem  swell, 


76  The  Chimes  of  St.  Paul's. 

That  while  you  bore  aloft  the  wail 

Of  those  who  wept  below, 
Sweet  comfort  to  their  bleeding  hearts 

Might  from  your  music  flow. 
Alas!  your  bells  were  silenced  all 

Hushed  by  relentless  foes, 
Though  once  above  the  battle's  din 

Their  solemn  protest  rose. 
They  tolled  amid  the  cannon's  peal 

When  to  our  doors  the  tiger  crept 
And  mothers  mourned  their  half-grown  sons 

While   babes   their  grandsires   wept. 
Yes !  let  the  foe  in  scorn  exclaim, 

We  robbed  ttye  cradle  and  the  grave, 
All,  all,  that  woman's  heart  could  give 

Old  Blandford's  daughters  freely  gave; 
And  now — when  every  hope  is  crushed 

With  bleeding  hearts  they  kneel 
And  fancy  that  your  sweet-toned  chimes 

Can  only  requiems  peal. 
Ring  out,  St.  Paul's !  ring  out  their  woe ; 

Each  strain  that  upward  floats 
Embalms  their  glorious  martyred  dead, 

In  music's  holiest  notes. 
Ring  out !  ring  out,  oh !  angel  bells, 

While  floating  to  the  skies, 
The  incense  of  their  sacrifice 

Forever  more  may  rise. 


The  Stratagems  of  Love.  77 


THE  STRATAGEMS  OF  LOVE. 

A  fragment  from  Calderon  de  la  Barca. 

Translated   by   Tenella.* 

The  cunning  archer  when  he  fain  would  bring 
Prone  on  the  earth,  a  heron  on  the  wing, 
Aims  not  where  now  the  passing  mark  he  sees, 
But,  claiming  helpful  tribute  from  the  breeze, 
Lets  fly  his  shaft,  so  it  may  surer  light, 
Full  in  its  bosom's  spotless,  snowy  white. 
The  hardy,  careful  sailor  of  the  main, 
He,  who  hath  laid  a  yoke  or  set  a  rein 
Upon  the  fierce  and  cruel  sea  to  bend 
Its  wild  and  boist'rous  nature  to  his  end, 
Steers  not  straight  onward,  but  with  artless  skill 
Deludes  opposing  waves  and  gains  his  will. 
The    warrior    who    would    take    some    fortress 

strong, 

Feels  that  in  arms  deceit  is  not  a  wrong, 
And  seeks  with  military  art  and  care 
By  stratagem  to  win  it  unaware. 
Force  yielding  up  to  craft  its  vantage  ground, 
First,  at  another  fort  the  alarm  doth  sound. 

*  Tenella  was  a  pseudonym  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  used  gen 
erally  in  her  earlier  writings  and  frequently  afterward. 


78  The  Stratagems  of  Love. 

The  hidden  mine  that  winds  its  tortuous  course 
E'en  from  the  fire  itself  conceals  its  force, 
Nor  lets  its  pregnant  power  be  known, 
Until  in  blazing  thunderbolts  'tis  shown. 
Now,  if  my  love  aims  in  the  realms  of  air 
And  like  the  fowler  seeks  its  quarry  there, 
Or   sails    a   mariner   upon   the   seas 
To  tempt  the  doubtful  fortune  of  the  breeze; 
Or  like  a  mine  bursts  forth  with  sudden  rage, 
Its  fierce  and  latent  passion  to  assuage ; 
Does  it  seem  strange  that  I  with  careful  art, 
Conceal  the  loving  feelings  of  my  heart, 
Until  Love  is  triumphant  everywhere, 
And  I,  on  water,  and  in  earth  or  air 
Shall  hit  or  reach,  or  conquer  or  o'erthrow 
My  game,  my  port,  my  fortress  or  my  foe? 


I  Wish  to  Love  Thee.  79 


I  WISH  TO  LOVE  THEE. 
A  translation  from  "Chants  Chretiens." 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  Oh!  my  God 
My  King — who  hath  redeemed  me; 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  for  this  life 
Is  bitter,  Lord,  away  from  Thee. 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  source  of  grace, 
For  my  salvation,  Lord,  Thou  art; 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  and  beseech 

That  Thou  wilt  take  my  willing  heart. 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  for  to  those 

Who  love,  Thy  presence  Thou  wilt  give; 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  for  Thy  love 
Alone,  can  make  my  soul  to  live. 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  that  Thy  light 
In  splendor  may  upon  me  shine; 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  that  I  may 

Be  watched  with  tenderness  like  thine. 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  for  my  soul 
A  refuge  hath  in  Thee  most  sure; 

I  wish  to  love  Thee,  for  Thou  art 

The  source  of  peace  which  shall  endure. 


80  I  Wish  to  Love  Thee. 

I  wish  to  love  Thee  all  my  life, 

My  heart,  Oh  Lord !  hath  need  of  Thee ; 
Then  let  me  not  forget  that  first, 

My  Saviour,  Thou  hast  loved  me. 


Cross    and    Crown.  81 


CROSS  AND  CROWN. 
(Thomas  a  Kempis,  B.  II,  Chap.  XL) 

Many,  Lord,  a  crown  would  wear 
Who  refuse  thy  cross  to  bear, 
Many  will  Thy  name  confess 
While  prosperity  shall  bless, 
Whose  weak  faith  within  them  dies 
When  Thy  tribulations  rise. 

Many  find  Thy  work  severe 
Who  Thy  miracles  revere, 
Many  with  Thee  bread  would  break, 
Few  Thy  cup  of  sufF ring  take, 
'Tis  Thy  comforts  they  desire, 
Not  Thy  pure  baptismal  fire. 

Saviour,  let  me  bear  Thy  cross 
Counting  neither  gain  nor  loss, 
Love  Thee,  with  a  love  so  pure 
That   self-love   cannot   endure; 
Serve  Thee  that  my  soul  may  live, 
Not  for  comforts  Thou  wilt  give. 


82  In    Memoriam. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 
General   Robert  E.  Lee,  C.  S.  A.,  November  3,   1870. 

The  conquered  banner  to  the  skies 

To  greet  our  Jackson  rose, 
And  following  now  that  banner's  lead 

Our  grandest  hero  goes. 

Like  some  tall  mount  whose  lofty  peak 

Is  first  to  catch  the  sun, 
And  latest  to  reflect  its  glow 

When  closing  day  is  done; 

A  beacon  in  our  land  he  stood, 

Upon  whose  noble  head, 
The  earliest  and  the  latest  ray, 

Of  every  hope  was  shed. 

He  cannot  die! — On  Hist'ry's  page 

He  lives  that  all  may  see, 
How  mortal  man  erst  here  below 

May  yet  immortal  be. 

And  to  the  stars  serenely  grand 
His   martyr'd   soul  takes  flight, 

That  he  who  was  our  noontide  sun 
May  thence  illume  our  night. 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  83 


CLYTIE  AND  ZENOBIA; 

OR, 

THE  LILY  AND  THE  PALM. 

This  tale  of  Zenobia's  Court,  interwoven  with  rich 
imagery  of  the  Orient,  needs  only  a  fancy  aroused  by 
the  beautiful,  to  discern  its  simple  and  classic  style, 
and  its  refined  and  unaffected  sentiment.  It  is  as  diffi 
cult  to  analyze  its  rare  essence,  as  it  is  to  describe  the 
subtile  perfume  of  Clyde's  emblem-flower.  It  charms 
and  captivates  the  imagination,  and  we  drink  it,  as  we 
do  a  glass  of  generous  old  wine,  without  inquiring 
its  year  of  vintage,  or  the  sunny  hillside  where  the 
grape  matured. 

CANTO  I. 

'Tis  early  morning,  e'er  the  sun 
His  golden  course  has  yet  begun ; 
The  pale  gray  dawn  ascends  the  skies 
As  struggling  darkness  slowly  dies, 
And  seems  the  hovering  soul  of  Night, 
Which,  e'er  to  Heaven  it  takes  its  flight, 
Still  lingering  hangs,  'tween  fear  and  hope, 
To  watch  the  golden  portals  ope. 


84  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

Now,  shimmering  on  the  temple  walls, 
A  rosy  haze  reflected  falls, 
Which  tells  the  priests,  who  watching  wait 
To  hail  their  god  in  gorgeous  state, 
That  he  propitious  will   appear 
To  bless  with  smiles  the  opening  year. 
To  them  that  welcome  roseate  flush 
Is  like  the  maiden's  tell-tale  blush, 
Which,  rising  e'er  he  yet  appears, 
Tells  that  her  lover's  steps  she  hears. 
But  now  the  crimson  turns  to  gold 
As  slow  the  eastern  gates  unfold, 
Which  quickly  changes  into  white 
Before  the  rising  tide  of  light. 
Breathless,  they  watch  it  fade  away, 
Then  kneel  to  greet  the  god  of  Day. 

He  comes !  and  on  the  palm-tree's  crown 
A  radiant  smile  casts  brightly  down; 
The  clash  of  timbrels  fills  the  air, 
The  priests  again  bow  down  in  prayer, 
And  then,  in  adoration,  raise 
A  grand  triumphant  hymn  of  praise. 
Before  the  dying  cadence  falls, 
Resounding  through  the  temple  halls, 
The  vestal  virgins'  chorus  swells, 
Like  echoes  from  sweet  fairy  bells, 
And  on  the  golden  air  there  floats 
The  softest,  most  voluptuous  notes, 
Which  tell  that,  darkness  vanquished,  now 
To  love  the  conquering  god  will  bow, 
And  ardent  smile  on  virgin  Earth 
Until  she  gives  his  offspring  birth.1 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  85 


SONG. 

He  comes !  a  conquering  god  who  treads 
The  darkness  'neath  his  feet, 

The  bridegroom  whom  the  waiting  Earth 
Prepares  with  joy  to  meet. 

The  flowers,  that  all  night  long  have  wept, 

As  soon  as  he  appears 
Lift  up  their  heads  to  greet  the  god, 

Who  dries  their  dewy  tears. 

The  Heliotrope  towards  him  turns 

All  day  its  bright  blue  eyes, 
But  when  his  smile  too  ardent  grows 

The   Morning  Glory  dies. 

The  Rose  to  him  alone  will  give 

The  attar  of  its  bloom  ;2 
His  warmth,  like  love  in  virgin  hearts, 

Draws  out  the  sweet  perfume. 

Like  Truth  the  stately  Lily  stands 

In  pure  and  spotless  pride, 
Her  snowy  bells,  by  darkness  closed, 

To   sunlight  open   wide. 

Like  Justice,  see,  the  Tulip  shuts 

Its  petals  until  light 
Shines  on  the  kingly  flower  and  brings 

Its  glories  into  sight. 


86  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

The  silvery  mist  which  veils  the  Earth 

He    gently    draws    aside, 
And  smiles  just  as  a  bridegroom  might 

When  he  unveils  his  bride. 

Smile  on,  smile  on,  O  glorious  god! 

Until  your  work  is  done, 
And  Mother  Earth  shall  fruitful  yield 

Her  offspring  to  the  Sun : 

The  royal  Palm  bear  golden  dates, 
Pomegranates  clustering  grow, 

While  through  the  Nect'rine  and  the  Peach 
The  luscious  juice  shall  flow; 

The  Almond  shed  its  ripened  nuts, 

The  glist'ning  Orange  shine, 
The  purple  Fig  with  sweetness  burst, 

And  Grapes  hang  on  the  vine. 

Leave  to  the  Greek  his  numerous  gods, 

The  Syrian  needs  but  one, 
For  all  the  heart  of  man  desires 

Is  given  by  his  Sun. 

Then  O,  while  Earth  with  fruit  and  flowers 

Responds  to  his  caress, 
Let  man,  by  Justice,  Truth,  and  Love, 

The  power  of  light  confess. 


But,  ere  the  song  was  wholly  o'er, 

The  god  concealed  his  face  once  more,— 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  87 

A  shadowy  cloud  before  it  drew, 
No  longer  of  a  rosy  hue, — 
As  though  he  only  hid  his  face 
To  smile  on  Earth  with  softened  grace. 
Still   darker  grew  the  threat'ning  cloud, 
While  muttering  thunder,  deep  not  loud, 
Dismayed  the  awe-struck  kneeling  crowd. 
But  hark !  one  loud  terrific  crash, 
One  blinding  zigzag  light'ning  flash, 
When  lo!  the  cloud  is  rent  in  twain, 
And  sheds  on  Earth  its  gathered  rain, 
And  in  one  long,  low,  sobbing  wail, 
In  silence  dies  the  rushing  gale. 
And  then,  like  faith  obscured  by  doubt, 
In  golden  sheaves  the  sun  burst  out, 
Just  caught  the  storm  before  it  passed, 
And  o'er  the  cloud  a  rainbow  cast; 
Which,  though  to  Heaven  it  owed  its  birth, 
In  shining  columns  touched  the  earth, 
Where  melting  into  one  were  seen 
Crimson  and  violet,  gold  and  green, 
Like  portals  to  those  realms  ideal 
Where  all  is  true,  but  nought  is  real. 

The  portent's  meaning  none  may  tell. 
In  vain  the  priests  essay  to  spell 
The   hidden   mysteries   of  the  skies, 
Laid  bare  alone  unto  the  wise. 
With  faces  pale  and  looks  aghast, 
They  search  the  meaning  of  the  blast, 
The  rosy  dawn  so  soon  o'ercast. 
Do  they  portend  the  coming  year 
Is  bright  with  hope,  or  dark  with  fear? 


88  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

"Pis  all  in  vain !  no  priestly  eye 
Can  into  that  dark  future  pry. 

And  now  the  marriage  rites  are  done, 

The  Earth  is  wedded  to  the  Sun, 

Her  sacrifice  is  all  ablaze 

With  fire  from  his  concentred  rays, 

The  sacred  victims  all  have  bled, 

The  holy  Zend  Avesta's  read, 

And  stands  erect  the  royal  priest, 

Palmyra's  king — lord  of  the  East, 

Sprinkling  the  blood  of  bulls  and  rams 

Toward  the  City  of  the  Palms, 

Where,  sheltered  'neath  their  cool  green  shade, 

Greek  portico  and  colonnade, 

With  Persian  minaret  and  dome, 

Rise  round  the  aqueducts  of  Rome. 

Palmyra  in  the  desert  stands, 

But  sheltered  from  its  burning  sands 

By  wooded  hills,  upon  whose  sides 

The  tiger  lurks,  the  leopard  hides; 

Far  from  the  city  they  arise, 

Which,  underneath  soft  Syrian  skies 

The  "Diamond  of  the  Desert"  lies, 

An  island  in  a  sea  of  sand ; 

Like  ancient  Persian  Samarcand 

For  more  than  Eastern  wealth  renowned, 

With  royal  palm-trees  nobly  crowned, 

Palmyra — Tadmor — both  the  same,3 

The  "City  of  the  Palms"  its  name; 

Here  Odenatus,  king  and  priest, 

Reigned  with  his  queen  o'er  all  the  East. 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  89 

Together  they  a  throne  had  won, 

Child  of  the  desert  and  the  Sun; 

Of  Arab  fire  and  Persian  grace, 

His  manly  form,  his  faultless  face, 

His  warlike  deeds,  his  great  renown, 

Bespoke  him  worthy  of  that  crown 

For  which  so  bravely  he  had  fought — 

Such  noble  deeds  of  valor  wrought, 

When   Persia's  haughty  monarch  brought 

His  conquering  army,  with  one  blow 

"The  Arab  chief"  to  overthrow,4 

Skilled  in  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

The  subtleties  of  Rome  and  Greece, 

In  council  wise,  in  action  bold, 

In  neither  love  nor  hatred  cold — 

A  warrior  stern,  a  lover  warm, 

He  chose  a  queen  whose  matchless  form 

Enshrined  a  high  yet  tender  heart. 

A  form  that  might  be  sculptor's  art 

Warmed  into  life  by  love's  desire 

To  feel — and  not  alone  inspire; 

A  face  from  poet's  revery  caught 

Of  mingled  sweetness,  lofty  thought; 

An  eye  that  each  emotion  showed — 

Now  brightly  flashed,  then  softly  glowed; 

A  soul  aflame  with  genius'  fire 

To  do,  and  not  alone  inspire, — 

Such  was  Zenobia ;  bright,  serene, 

A  loving  woman — yet  a  queen. 

Ambition  is  a  fearful  dower 

When  woman  may  not  own  its  power, 


90  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

Though  burning  with  intense  desire 
To  feed,  not  quench  its  latent  fire ; 
Conscious  of  power  to  make  a  name, 
Yet  lacking  strength  to  conquer  fame; 
Tied  down  by  petty  cares  which  bind 
The  body  fast,  yet  leave  the  mind 
To  fret  and  struggle  in  despair 
With  greater  ills  which  it  must  bear; 
When  love,  though  pure  and  unalloyed, 
Still  leaves  an  intellectual  void, — 
A  void  its  sweetness  does  not  fill, 
A  longing  want  it  cannot  still. 
Too  often  by  the  struggle  torn, 
By  many  an  inward  conflict  worn, 
A  prey  to  doubt,  the  sport  of  fears, 
The  pearl  of  health  dissolved  in  tears, 
Too  proud  to  yield,  too  weak  to  fight, 
She  longs  at  noontide  for  the  night. 

Love  is  but  of  man's  life  a  part, 

It  does  not  fill  both  head  and  heart; 

Its  myrtles  he  would  twine  with  bay, 

And  'mid  its  roses  laurels  lay. 

At  intervals,  fanned  by  its  breeze, 

He  lies  at  rest  in  Capuan  ease, 

Then,  cheered  and  strengthened  for  the  strife, 

Enters  the  battle  field  of  life. 

And  there  are  women,  who,  like  men, 

Need  something  more  than  love,  and  when 

It  is  not  of  their  life  the  whole, 

And  does  not  fill  head,  heart  and  soul, 

Leaving  no  wish  that  is  denied, 

No  longing  want  ungratified, 


Clyde    and    Zenobia.  91 

Laurels  and  bays  they  too  should  twine, — 
Not  idly  sit  and  hopeless  pine. 
Though  love  is  sweet,  the  danger's  great 
When  eagles  stoop  with  doves  to  mate; 
They  needs  must  soar  to  be  content, 
And,  if  within  a  dove-cote  pent, 
E'en  of  their  love  they  may  grow  weary, 
And  sigh  for  freedom  and  the  aerie. 
But  she  who's  mated  with  her  kind, 
Who  in  her  highest  flights  will  find 
Just  o'er  her  head  her  king-bird  rise, 
Glorying  in  every  flight  she  tries, 
And  urging  her  to  fields  still  higher, 
May  feed  with  love  ambition's  fire, 
Yet  make  of  home  a  peaceful  nest, 
With  all  love's  soft  emotions  blest. 
So  thought  the  royal  Palmyrene, 
And  in  his  wife  he  sought  a  queen; 
The  partner  of  his  royal  schemes 
Was  still  the  woman  of  his  dreams. 
Though  born  beneath  an  eastern  sky, 
Zenobia  scorned  at  ease  to  lie, 
That  indolent,  voluptuous  ease, 
Induced  by  Syria's  perfumed  breeze. 
Attended  by  her  brilliant  court, 
She  with  her  lord  shared  every  sport, 
And  even  in  his  wars  took  part. 
No  Parthian  shot  a  truer  dart, 
No  Arab  with  more  perfect  skill 
Guided  or  checked  his  steed  at  will, 
A  surer  lance  no  Persian  threw, 
A  better  sword  no  Roman  drew; 


92  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

Not  Cleopatra  held  her  place 

At  banquet  with  more  royal  grace, 

More  lightly  danced,  more  sweetly  sung, 

With  brighter  wit  e'er  armed  her  tongue, 

Nor  Jewish  Deborah  judged  her  state 

With  wisdom  more  profoundly  great. 

Two  royal  lines  in  her  were  blent, — 

From  Egypt's  queen  she  claimed  descent, 

And  had  her  soft  voluptuous  grace, 

Her  beauty  both  of  form  and  face, 

Her  power  to  fascinate  and  please 

All  men  at  will  with  equal  ease; 

Whilst  her  dark  eye  flashed  with  the  fire 

Inherited  from  Jewish  sire,5 

And  Miriam's  spirit  thrilled  her  soul 

Which  love  alone  could  not  control. 


Upon  a  fiery,  coal-black  steed, 
Whose  slender  legs  declare  his  breed, 
Whose  arching  neck  and  eye  of  fire 
Show  Scythian  dam  and  Arab  sire, 
With  fearless  ease  and  faultless  grace 
She  follows  now  the  tiger  chase. 
Her  battle-axe  and  crescent  shield 
Thalestris'6  self  might  deign  to  wield; 
Her  lance  beside  her  saddle  hung, 
Her  Parthian  bow  was  ready  strung; 
Ne'er  looked  she  on  her  throne  in  state 
So  proudly  grand,  so  truly  great. 

In  woman's  heart  there  ever  lies 
A  queenly  instinct,  which  will  rise 


Clyde    and    Zenobia.  93 

At  times,  however  trodden  down, 
And  claim  its  right  to  wear  a  crown : 
Then,  for  a  moment,  she  will  feel 
Her  springy  muscles  turn  to  steel, 
And  boldly  do,  or  bravely  bear 
All,  all,  that  man  himself  may  dare. 
It  will  not  stay,  but  while  it  lasts, 
New  beauty  o'er  her  face  it  casts; 
Her  head  is  reared  with  conscious  pride, 
Her  bosom  heaves  beneath  the  tide 
Of  wakened  feeling  in  it  pent, 
And  longs  to  give  its  passion  vent. 
And  never  does  this  instinct  rise 
To  flash  more  brightly  from  her  eyes 
Than  when  she  feels  her  slender  hand 
Can  in  his  might  her  steed  command, 
That  'tis  her  alone  that  guides 
The  noble  creature  which  she  rides: 
Then,  over  every  fear  supreme, 
By  Nature's  hand  she's  crowned  a  queen. 

So  felt  Zenobia — shook  her  rein, 
And  dashed  across  the  verdant  plain, 
Followed  by  her  attendant  train, 
To  where,  beyond  its  outer  bounds 
Arose  the  forest  hunting-grounds. 
And  now  the  royal  sport  began, 
The  noblest  that  is  known  to  man. 
The  prickers  through  the  jungle  beat, 
To  rouse  the  game  from  its  retreat, 
The  hunters  circling  ride  around 
Impatient  for  the  bugle's  sound, 


94  Clytic    and    Zenobia. 

Whose  piercing  note  directs  them  where 
The  quarry's  lurking  in  its  lair. 

It  comes — a  single  blast  and  shrill, 
From  half-way  up  the  wooded  hill; 
They  gather  round  it  in  a  ring, 
The  tiger  gives  one  gallant  spring, 
And,  ere  they've  clearly  marked  his  den, 
Alights  among  the  startled  men. 
One  instant  crouching  low  he  lies, 
The  next,  straight  at  Zenobia  flies ; 
Backward  her  startled  steed  she  drew, 
As  at  the  beast  her  lance  she  threw ; 
It  caught  him  in  his  downward  sweep, 
He  gathers  for  another  leap, 
But  feels  his  strength  at  once  give  way, 
And  savage  turns  and  stands  at  bay. 
Then,  like  an  eagle  on  the  wing, 
With  lance  in  rest,  down  sweeps  the  king, 
But,  as  he  poised  it  for  the  cast, 
Another,  dashing  rudely  past, 
Pushed  in  his  steed,  and  threw  a  dart 
Which  quivered  in  the  tiger's  heart. 
But  not  a  shout  the  deed  applauds, 
All  silent  stand  the  Syrian  lords 
Till  anger  in  the  monarch's  face 
To  haughty  dignity  gives  place. 

Maeonius,  who  this  deed  had  done, 
Was  Odenatus'  brother's  son, 
And  well  the  watching  courtiers  knew 
In  insolence  his  javelin  threw. 


Clytie    and    Zcnobla.  95 

The  Arab  blood  which  hotly  glowed 
Upon  the  monarch's  cheek  ^nd  flowed 
With  quick  pulsation  through  his  veins, 
His  Persian  prudence  soon  restrains. 
He  first  enforced  the  hunter's  law: 
The  youth  must  from  the  chase  withdraw, 
And  then,  deprived  of  arms  and  steed, 
A  prisoner's  life  at  court  must  lead; 
His  sovereign's  presence  must  not  seek, 
Must  not  with  any  courtier  speak, 
Until  the  king  his  arms  restore, 
And  bid  him  to  the  chase  once  more. 


g6  Clyde    and    Zenobia. 


CANTO  II. 

A  week  has  flown ;  the  king  and  court 
Are  resting  from  the  morning  sport 
Upon  the  palace  colonnade 
Beneath  the  bamboo's  flickering  shade. 
High  o'er  a  mass  of  foliage  green, 
With  gorgeous  tropic  flowers  between, 
A  fountain  shoots  its  sparkling  spray, 
Weaving  bright  rainbows  in  its  play. 
Below,  the  water-lily  spreads 
Its  flowers,  like  nymphs  who  lift  their  heads 
To  gaze  upon  a  scene  so  fair, 
And  then,  enraptured,  linger  there. 
Gliding  the  broad  green  leaves  between, 
Two  stately  snow-white  swans  are  seen, 
Whose  every  motion  bears  the  trace 
Of  that  majestic  haughty  grace 
Jove  left  the  fabled  bird  which  gave 
Its  form  from  Juno's  wrath  to  save.T 
High  over  head,  his  body  hid, 
A  peacock  reared  its  crest  amid 
The  Persian  apple's  crimson  bloom, 
Whence  floats  a  sweetly  faint  perfume; 
His  sinuous  neck,  of  brilliant  blue, 
Each  moment  changing  in  its  hue, 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  97 

As  quick  he  turns  from  side  to  side 

His  haughty  head  in  conscious  pride, 

A  serpent  seems,  who,  hid  in  flowers, 

Is  seeking  'neath  its  leafy  bowers 

This  Eden's  Eve,  that  he  may  win 

Her  virgin  soul  to  shame  and  sin.8 

Here  lemons  breathe  their  sweet  perfume, 

The  lilac  opes  its  purple  bloom, 

Each  wand'ring  zephyr  as  it  blows 

Scatters  the  odors  of  the  rose, 

Or  from  its  wings  the  fragrance  sheds 

Gathered  amid   carnation   beds; 

The  rosy  lotus  spreads  its  flowers 

To  catch  the  fountain's  cooling  showers; 

The  Persian  jasmine's  shining  stars 

Peep  through  the  gilded  lattice  bars, 

Or  gently  fall  like  flakes  of  snow 

Upon  the  emerald  turf  below. 

Bright  humming-birds  dart  here  and  there, 

Soft  music  floats  upon  the  air, 

Or  gently  into  silence  dies, 

Again  in  liquid  notes  to  rise, 

Now  clear  and  sweet,  then  soft  and  low, 

Just  heard  above  the  fountain's  flow, 

Whose  waters  louder  seem  to  play 

Whene'er  the  music  dies  away, 

Or  fainter  twinkle  when  it  swells 

As  list'ning  to  the  tale  it  tells. 

Fresh  from  the  bath  Zenobia  lies, 

A  languid  beauty  in  her  eyes, 

Which  flash  not  now  with  genius'  fire 

But  softest  love  alone  inspire. 


98  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

Around  her  scattered  amaranths  lie, 
While  silken  cushions  heaped  on  high 
Support  her  form  as  she  reposes 
Upon  a  divan  stuffed  with  roses.9 
Her  Persian  dress,  which  half  conceals 
The  beauty  of  her  form,  reveals 
Her  slender  feet,  her  instep  high, 
Crossed  by  her  sandal's  silken  tie. 
Attendant  slaves  in  gorgeous  dress, 
Through  mountain  snow  the  sherbet  press, 
Or  gently  stir  the  perfumed  air 
With  fragrant  fans  of  feathers  rare; 
'Mid  heaps  of  grapes  fresh  from  the  vine 
Stand  goblets  filled  with  Chian10  wine, 
And  golden  baskets  piled  with  fruit. 
A  Grecian  girl  just  touched  her  lute 
From  time  to  time,  until  the  king 
Turned  with  a  smile  and  bade  her  sing; 
When  clear  as  that  soft  sound  that  flows 
From  silvery  bells,  her  song  arose. 


SONG. 

The  Palm,  the  Palm,  the  royal  Palm! 

Beneath  its  stately  crown 
Hangs  golden  dates  high  over  head 

Or  casts  them  ripened  down. 
The  Vine,  the  Vine,  the  graceful  Vine! 

Its  luscious  fruit  conceals, 
Till  purple  grapes  beneath  its  leaves 

A  wooing  breeze  reveals. 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  99 

Just  so  should  man  before  the  world 

In  pride  lift  up  his  head, 
And  let  his  life's  bright  golden  deeds 

Around  his  feet  be  shed : 
While  woman,  like  the  clinging  vine, 

Her  sweetest  gift  should  hide, 
And  only  yield  when  love's  caress 

Shall  draw  the  veil  aside. 

"The  royal  palm  methinks  should  shower 
Its  golden  gifts  upon  this  flower 
Which  blooms  so  brightly  at  its  feet, 
Filling  the  air  with  fragrance  sweet; 
Say,  Clytie,  shall  it  be,  my  girl, 
This  sapphire  ring — this  pendent  pearl?" 
So  spoke  the  king,  and  marked  her  grace, 
Her  rounded  form,  her  Grecian  face, 
Her  penciled  brow,  her  neck  of  snow, 
Her  coral  lips  like  Cupid's  bow. 
A  rosy  glow  flushed  Clytie's  cheek, 
She  crossed  her  arms  but  did  not  speak, 
Her  clustering  curls  of  chestnut  hue 
With  graceful  gesture  backward  threw, 
Flashed  one  bright  look  upon  the  king, 
Then,  smiling,  took  the  sapphire  ring. 

"I  too  must  act  the  part  that's  mine 
And  give  my  gift  as  does  the  vine; 
You  offer  jewels — better  still, 
I'll  let  her  have  her  woman's  will; 
Her  song  has  served  the  leaves  to  lift, — 
Speak,  Clytie,  choose  Zenobia's  gift." 


ioo  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

"If  I  may  ask,"  the  maiden  said, 

As  gracefully  she  bent  her  head, 

"Just  what  I  will,  O  queen,  to-day, 

I'll  for  your  intercession  pray, — 

When  you  entreat  no  one  denies : 

In  yonder  tower  a  captive  lies ; 

Plead  with  the  king  that  he  restore 

Mseonius  to  his  grace  once  more, 

Give  back  to-night  his  bow  and  spear, 

And  bid  him  at  the  dance  appear." 

Ah,  Clytie!  Clytie!  with  love's  skill 

You  truly  guessed  your  sovereign's  will, 

Watched  every  change  his  count'nance  knew, 

Marked  every  cloud  that  o'er  it  threw 

A  shade  of  anger  or  of  grief, 

And  sought  for  all  his  ills  relief. 

'Twas  at  his  feet — not  on  his  head — 

That  you  love's  precious  spikenard  shed; 

It  fell  not  wasted  to  the  earth, 

For  many  a  gentle  thought  had  birth 

In  your  soft  heart  from  love  alone, 

Whose  source  to  you  was  all  unknown 

As  was  the  subtle  incense  rare 

You  burned  before  the  idol  there. 

He  was  your  Sun — his  loves  but  flowers 

With  whom  he  spent  his  idle  hours ; 

Now  on  the  rose  he  cast  a  smile, 

Then  with  the  lily  toyed  awhile, 

Inhaled  the  passion-flower's  perfume, 

Or  brushed  the  acacia's  yellow  bloom; 

Now  stooped  to  smell  the  mignonette, 

Or  pluck  a  fragrant  violet: 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  101 

But  over  every  flower  supreme 
Zenobia  reigned,  his  heart's  true  queen. 

She  too  had  read  the  monarch's  heart, 
And  smiled  at  Clyde's  artless  art, 
For  both  by  truest  love  inspired, 
Divined  what  most  the  king  desired. 
"Shine  down,"  she  said,  "in  all  your  power, 
O  genial  Sun,  upon  this  flower, 
This  Heliotrope11  who  modest  stands, 
And  asks  a  favor  at  your  hands. 
Come,  grant  her  boon ;  be  it  her  right 
Again  to  arm  yon  captive  knight." 
"I  gave  her,"  said  the  smiling  king, 
"For  her  first  strain  my  sapphire  ring; 
And  if  she'll  sing  another  song 
To  her  the  captive  shall  belong." 
The  Grecian  lightly  swept  the  strings, 
Just  as  a  bird  might  try  its  wings, 
Then  many  a  sleeping  echo  woke, 
As  rippling  into  song  she  broke. 

SONG. 

As  desert  birds  are  by  the  Sun 
Warmed  into  life  within  their  nest11 

Man's  tender  glance  will  wake  the  love 
Which  ever  sleeps  in  woman's  breast. 

And  O,  'tis  sweetest  when  first  woke, 
For  if  the  passion  leaves  the  eyes, 

Although  to  live  deep  in  the  heart, 
The  freshness  of  its  beauty  dies. 


IO2  Clyde    and    Zenobia. 

For,  as  the  rosy  clouds  of  morn 
Grow  pale  before  the  risen  sun, 

Love's  tenderest  beauty  fades  away 
Before  its  golden  noon's  begun. 

"Not  so,  not  *so,"  Zenobia  cried, 
"Woman  is  not  so  easy  won; 
We  do  not  ope  our  hearts  to  man 

As  flowers  their  petals  to  the  Sun. 
More  than  a  tender  glance  'twill  take 
A  living  love  in  us  to  wake, — 
Or  else  the  captive  in  yon  tower 
Had  won  your  heart,  my  pretty  flower." 

"Ah !  is  it  so  ?    and  does  he  hope 
To  pluck  this  blue-eyed  Heliotrope, 
To  win  this  bird  who  for  me  sings, 
Within  his  cage  to  fold  her  wings? 
No  wonder  he  who'd  boldly  dare 
To  steal  a  flower  from  my  parterre, 
Or  enter  'gainst  me  in  love's  race, 
Should  push  before  me  in  the  chase. 
What  say  you,  Clytie, — will  you  weep 
If  I  Apollo  captive  keep? 
Methinks  I'd  better,  for  in  truth 
I'm  envious  of  the  favored  youth. 

For,  as  we  sigh  for  boyhood's  joys 
In  manhood's  strength  and  prime, 

My  heart  oft  longs  for  love's  sweet  spring, 
Though  in  its  summer-time; 

Longs  once  again  to  feel  the  thrill 
Of  mingled  fear  and  hope, 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  I03 

As  on  my  lady's  lily  cheek 

I  watch  the  roses  ope. 
For,  with  yon  orange-tree,  I'd  hang 

The  bud,  the  fruit,  the  flower 
Together  on  love's  spreading  boughs, 

Had  I  like  it  the  power.           • 
There,  mingling  with  the  ripened  fruit, 

The  full-blown  flowers  are  seen 
By  bursting  buds  that  scarce  have  streaked 

With  white  teir  tendre  green,13 
Just  so  beside  love's  opening  joys, 

Its  pleasures  pure  as  snow, 
I'd  have  its  luscious  tropic  fruit 

In  ripened  sweetness  glow. 

You  sang  of  love,  my  pretty  flower, 

And  see  at  once  I  feel  its  power; 

And  so,  methinks,  my  queen,  you're  wrong, 

In  your  objection  to  the  song; 

For  by  one  glance  a  woman  can 

Inflame,  we  know,  the  heart  of  man, 

And  'tis  but  fair  that  in  return 

Beneath  his  eye  her  own  should  bum. 

Prometheus  stole  from  heaven  its  fire14 

To  animate  a  senseless  form; 
Pygmalion15  prayed  the  powers  divine 

His  ivory  beauty's  breast  to  warm; 
But  man,  to  melt  a  woman's  heart, 

The  aid  of  gods  need  not  require, 
If  in  himself  he  feels  the  warmth 

Of  passion's  pure  creative  fire, — 
That  spark  divine  which  always  glows 
When  Heaven  on  him  a  soul  bestows. 


IO4  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

But  give  to  me  the  silvery  lute, 

I'll  sing  a  warning  'gainst  love's  fruit ; 

Tis  not  all  sweet,  but  keeps  concealed 
A  bitterness  too  soon  revealed." 


SONG. 

Ambition  is  tbe  ripened  pear, 

And  friendship  is  the  vine, 
Which  even  round  a  ruin  will 

Its  clinging  tendrils  twine. 

But  love  is  like  the  luscious  peach, — 

A  touch  its  bloom  destroys; 
As  beautiful  its  blushing  cheek, 

As  sweet  its  tasted  joys. 

Forever  in  its  inmost  heart 

A  hidden  poison  lies, 
And  all  its  sweetness  is  forgot 

If  jealousy  arise. 

So  then  beware, — go  not  too  far, 

If  only  sweets  you'd  find, 
Just  brush  the  bloom  and  taste  the  fruit, 

But  leave  its  heart  behind. 

For  man  too  often  at  its  core 

Meets  bitterness  alone, 
While  many  a  woman  breaks  her  teeth 

Against  its  heart  of  stone. 


Clyde    and    Zenobia.  105 

"Give  me  the  pear,"  Zenobia  said, 
And  proudly  raised  her  queenly  head, — 
"It  ripens  late,  is  not  all  sweet, 
Yet  'tis  the  fruit  which  I  would  eat: 
It  hangs  on  high, — not  like  the  peach, 
On  lowly  boughs  that  all  may  reach, 
And  he  who'd  pluck  a  ripened  pear 
Must  bravely  do,  and  boldly  dare." 

"To  you,  my  queen,  I'll  now  resign 

Ambition's  joys,  so  love's  be  mine. 

All  fruit  is  ripe  in  its  own  time, 

And  when  my  peach  has  passed  its  prime, 

Again  with  you  I'll  seek  to  share 

Ambition's  spicy,  ripened  pear; 

Just  now,  methinks,  I  wish  alone 

To  taste  my  peach, — avoid  its  stone, — 

Enjoy  life's  sweets  without  its  pain; 

Not  to  the  dregs  its  goblet  drain, 

But  merely  sip  love's  sparkling  foam 

As,  like  a  butterfly,  I  roam 

From  flower  to  flower,  and  only  rest 

A  moment  on  each  perfumed  breast. 

You,  Clytie,  are  the  clinging  vine, 

But  sweetest  grapes  yield  strongest  wine, 

And  oft  in  love  a  friendship  ends, 

Though  lovers  rarely  change  to  friends. 

And  you,  my  queen,  the  whole  combine, — 

Ambition's  pear  and  friendship's  vine, 

Love's  luscious  peach,  whose  bitter  stone 

To  me  has  never  yet  been  shown ; 

My  stately  palm, — my  attar  rose, 

Whose  petals  to  my  love  unclose, 


io6  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

The  crown  imperial  of  my  life, 

My  royal  queen,  my  loving  wife, 

My  amaranth  and  my  asphodel,18 

On  whom  my  thoughts  in  death  shall  dwell. 

Go,  Zabdas,  ope  the  prison  door 

And  freedom  to  yon  youth  restore ; 

Bid  him  appear  at  this  night's  dance, 

And  there  receive  his  sword  and  lance. 

Clytie,  the  sapphire  meaneth  hope, 

Give  it  to  him,  my  Heliotrope ; 

I  free  the  captive  from  my  chain, 

But  bid  you  bind  him  fast  again." 

While  thus  of  love  the  monarch  spoke, 
Its  light  on  Clytie's  heart  first  broke, 
And  by  the  flash  there  stood  revealed 
The  passion  'neath  life's  flowers  concealed. 
With  quivering  lip  and  blushing  cheek 
She  bowed  her  head  but  did  not  speak. 
'Tis  sweet  to  love  and  know  it  not, — 

Sweeter,  to  give  the  heart  away ; 
But  sharp  the  pang  when  woman  finds 

Unsought  her  love  has  gone  astray. 
And  there  are  hearts — true,  loyal  hearts 

Which  to  be  given  will  not  wait, 
But  give  themselves  most  treach'rously, 

Nor  know  the  gift  until  too  late; 
Too  late  the  tendrils  of  their  love 

With  gentle  touches  to  untwine, 
And  they  must  wrench  the  branches  from 

The  living  body  of  the  vine ; 
Break  every  tie,  however  strong, 


Clytie    and    Zcnobia.  107 

Sever  each  clinging  link  so  frail, 
And  tear  the  vine  from  its  support, 

Though  in  the  dust  its  branches  trail. 
This  Clytie  felt  she  now  must  do 
If  to  herself  she  would  be  true. 
Hers  was  a  soft,  a  loving  heart, 
Of  which  ambition  held  no  part: 
Each  fibre  was  with  love  enwrought, 
It  ruled  each  act,  and  shaped  each  thought. 
Give  her  but  love,  her  lute,  her  flowers, 
And  happy  were  her  waking  hours ; 
No  dream  of  fame  disturbed  her  sleep, 
No  waking  vigil  did  she  keep. 
When  thoughts  went  surging  through  her  brain 
She  strove  to  grasp  and  then  retain; 
She  never  felt  that  strange  vague  sense 
Of  keen  desire,  yet  impotence, 
These  thoughts  and  fancies  to  control 
And  through  her  art  breathe  out  her  soul, — 
That  artist  soul  that  must  find  vent, 
Or  restless  pines  in  discontent; 
Must  speak  in  music,  painting,  rhyme, 
In  sculpture,  or  in  deeds  sublime; 
That's  not  content  to  imitate 
But  strives  forever  to  create, 
And  ever  feels  it  can  do  more 
Yet  never  reaches  where  'twould  soar, 
But  finds  an  unseen  net-work  break11 
Each  upward  flight  it  fain  would  take. 
To  love  was  Clytie's  only  art, 
And  nobly  did  she  act  her  part, 
For  softest  hearts  may  yet  be  strong 
To  do  the  right,  avoid  the  wrong; 


io8  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

Love's  genial  sun  with  tender  glow 
May  melt,  'tis  true,  their  virgin  snow 
And  shine  on  beauties  hid  below; 
But  tenderest  love's  always  allied 
To  sense  of  honor  and  to  pride. 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  109 


CANTO  III. 

The  music  caught  the  captive's  ear; 
He  paused  awhile  its  notes  to  hear, 
Then,  nearer  to  the  casement  drew 
Where  he  the  palace  court  might  view. 
Fair  was  the  scene  on  which  he  gazed, 
Why  starts  he  back  like  one  amazed? 
Why  stamp  his  foot  and  flush  with  rage, 
Then,  like  a  tiger  in  his  cage, 
With  rapid  step  pace  to  and  fro 
Until  his  cheek  has  ceased  to  glow, 
And  all  the  color  in  his  face 
To  ashen  pallor  gives  its  place? 
A  passing  rage  the  blood  will  start 
In  quick  pulsations  from  the  heart, 
And  send  it  bounding  through  each  vein, 
The  breast  to  heave,  the  cheek  to  stain; 
And  man,  to  give  such  passion  vent, 
Will  strike  a  blow  without  intent, 
And  all  its  raging  fury's  spent. 
But  deadly  anger  deeper  lies, 
No  crimson  flush  from  it  will  rise, 
Back  to  its  source  the  blood  will  flow, 
The  pulse  beats  full, — not  fast  nor  slow, 
While  to  the  heart  the  head  will  lend 
Cool  craft  and  power  to  gain  its  end. 


no  Clytle    and    Zenobia. 

The  deadliest  passion  of  the  heart 
At  once  may  into  being  start, 
And  jealousy  be  born  of  Love, 
As  from  the  teeming  brain  of  Jove 
Minerva  sprang  in  all  her  might, 
Full-grown  and  ready  armed  for  fight. 
Anger  with  tenderest  love  is  felt, 
Though  into  sorrow  soon  'twill  melt; 
But  jealousy  can  know  no  trust, 
Is  never  generous,  never  just. 
Hatred  man  turns  against  his  foes, 
But  in  his  jealous  rage  he  throws 
His  keenest,  swiftest,  deadliest  dart 
Against  the  idol  of  his  heart; 
But  if  in  woman's  breast  it  burns 
Her  wrath  against  her  rival  turns. 
When  with  his  genial  smile,  the  king 
To  Clytie  gave  his  sapphire  ring, 
Maeonius  caught  the  speaking  look 
With  which  the  gracious  gift  she  took; 
It  set  his  Arab  blood  on  fire 
With  deadly  jealousy  and  ire. 
Long  had  it  been  his  earnest  hope 
To  win  and  wear  the  Heliotrope, 
To  turn  on  him  those  blue  eyes  bent 
Where'er  the  king  his  sunshine  sent; 
For  with  a  lover's  instinct  true, 
He  soon  her  latent  passion  knew, 
And  flushed  with  rage  whene'er  the  king 
Bade  her  for  his  amusement  sing. 
Nor  could  he,  as  he  longed  to  do, 
Taunt  Clytie  with  the  love  he  knew; 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  in 

In  his  despair  he  sometimes  tried ; 
But  on  his  tongue  the  sentence  died. 

Magicians,  in  the  olden  days, 
Whene'er  a  demon  they  would  raise, 
Drew  charmed  circles  on  the  floor 
Which  evil  spirits  passed  not  o'er : 
Safe  from  their  power  within  this  ring 
O'er  their  familiars  they  could  fling 
Their  wondrous  spells,  and  at  their  will 
A  raging  tempest  raise  or  still; 
But  if  they  passed  that  barrier  frail, 
Their  art  was  then  of  no  avail ; 
The  might  of  hell  they  could  not  stem, 
Its  demons  fierce  had  power  o'er  them. 
'Tis  thus  with  woman :  man  ne'er  leaps 
Her  charmed  circle  while  she  keeps 
Within  its  sheltering  border  line, 
Which  he  can  feel  though  not  define; 
But  let  her  once  that  line  step  o'er, 
And  she  can  rule  him  then  no  more; 
The  demon  raised  she  cannot  still, 
And  she  must  bend  before  its  will. 

In  such  a  circle  Clytie  stood, 

In  all  the  might  of  womanhood, 

And  he  but  loved  her  all  the  more 

That  he  its  line  could  not  pass  o'er. 

The  single  step  he  could  not  take, 

The  magic  circle  dared  not  break, 

And  tinge  sweet  Clytie's  cheek  with  shame 

By  giving  to  her  love  a  name. 


112  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

But  'gainst  the  king  so  oft  he  turned 
The  jealous  rage  with  which  he  burned, 
That  well  the  watching  courtiers  knew 
Why  that  discourteous  lance  he  threw; 
And  those  whose  restless  discontent 
In  change  of  sovereigns  found  a  vent, 
Would  fan  the  flame  and  urge  that  he, 
The  king  removed,  might  monarch  be. 
To  such  base  schemes  Mseonius  ne'er 
Had  lent  before  a  list'ning  ear ; 
Now  evil  over  good  prevailed, 
His  manly  cheek  before  it  paled: 
But  'twas  not  horror  nor  dismay 
That  sent  the  crimson  flush  away — 
His  prison  bonds  alone  he  felt 
Wrhile  Clytie  to  his  rival  knelt, 
And  freedom,  granted  in  her  name, 
A  deeper  insult  yet  became. 
Full  well  he  knew  just  where  to  find 
A  trait'rous,  disaffected  mind. 
And  when  the  evening  rites  were  o'er, 
Before  a  trait'rous  priest  he  swore 
Revenge  for  all  his  wrongs  he'd  take, 
And  kill  the  king  for  Clyde's  sake. 

Now  plainly  can  that  priest  unfold 
The  event  the  New  Year's  storm  foretold: 
The  storm  must  come,  but  'mid  its  rain 
The  bow  of  hope  shines  bright  again, 
And  these  full  sheaves  of  golden  light 
Proclaim  Palmyra's  future  bright. 
"Strike !  strike !  O  royal  youth,"  he  cried ; 
"Strike  for  kingdom  and  a  bride! 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  113 

And  let  to-morrow's  rising  sun 

Behold  the  battle  fought  and  won !" 

"It  shall!  and  then  Palmyra's  throne 

And  Clytie,  too,  will  be  my  own; 

She'll  surely  not  refuse  a  crown 

If  at  her  feet  I  cast  it  down; 

And  on  my  unsheathed  dagger  swear 

The  diadem  I  will  not  wear 

If  she  refuse  my  throne  to  share!" 

So  spake  Maeonius.     Half  aside 

The  crafty  priest  to  him  replied, 

"The  Heliotrope  turns  to  the  Sun, 

And,  when  Palmyra's  crown  is  won, 

I  prophesy  the  blue-eyed  flower 

Will  turn  to  you  in  that  bright  hour. 

But  be  not  rash,  we've  much  to  fear ; 

To-night  receive  your  sword  and  spear, 

To-morrow  use  your  dagger  here. 

The  palace  guards  we  cannot  win, 

But  once  the  temple  gates  within, 

The  king  is  wholly  in  our  power; 

Slay  him — and  then  the  throne  and  flower  1" 

'Tis  night,  and  from  the  palace  walls 

A  brilliant  flood  of  radiance  falls, 

Which  bathes  the  festive  scene  below 

In  one  continued  golden  glow. 

Gay  wreaths  of  flowers  are  twined  around 

The  stately  marble  columns,  crowned 

With  sculptured  palm-leaves  far  outspread 

In  graceful  arches  overhead. 

The  painted  ceiling  showed  the  Sun, 

His  daily  race  not  yet  begun; 


ii4  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

His  fiery  coursers  strong  as  fleet 

Trample  the  darkness  'neath  their  feet, 

Impatient  rosy  Morn  to  greet, 

Who  with  one  hand  day's  gate  unbars, 

While  with  the  other,  o'er  the  stars 

She  draws  a  golden  veil  of  light, 

And  hides  the  beauties  of  the  night. 

More  brilliant  still  the  scene  beneath, — 

There  sylph-like  maids  twine  like  a  wreath 

Around  their  queen,  who,  in  the  pride 

Of  regal  beauty,  sits  beside 

The  king  upon  Palmyra's  throne, 

Which  might  of  arms  had  made  their  own. 

A  silvery  veil  was  round  her  flung, 

Which,  like  a  misty  vapor  hung 

Before  the  sun,  did  but  reveal 

The  beauty  it  could  not  conceal, 

And  heightened  the  seductive  charms 

Of  her  fair  neck  and  ivory  arms. 

Amid  its  folds  she  seemed  to  be 

Venus  arising  from  the  sea, 

Whose  snowy  foam  still  round  her  lay 

All  sparkling  with  its  diamond  spray. 

Two  pages,  dressed  as  Cupids,  bore 

Her  sea-green  train,  which  swept  the  floor, 

While  on  her  brow  a  crown  she  wore. 

Without,  the  light  a  net-work  weaves 
Across  the  deep-green  orange-leaves, 
From  colored  lamps  amid  them  hung 
Which  o'er  the  sparkling  fountains  flung1 
A  glow,  that,  as  it  caught  their  showers, 
Seemed  that  of  fire-flies  hid  in  flowers. 


Clyde    and    Zenobia.  115 

The  starry  jasmine's  nightly  bloom 

Sheds  on  the  air  its  sweet  perfume, 

While  from  the  water-lily's  cup 

A  spicy  odor's  wafted  up, 

A  subtle  fragrance  rich  as  sweet, 

Crushed  out  beneath  Night's  hurrying  feet, 

As  o'er  the  tropic  scene  she  sped, 

Nor  came  with  twilight's  lingering  tread, 

Majestic,  quiet,  calm,  and  slow, 

As  in  the  colder  climes  of  snow; 

But  with  a  flexile  tiger  grace 

Leaped  from  the  sunset's  warm  embrace, 

And  sprang  at  once  upon  the  scene 

To  reign  till  morn  its  star-crowned  queen. 

Across  the  court  Mseonius  sped, 

Nor  marked  the  beauty  round  him  spread; 

The  plot  was  laid — the  guards  are  won, 

And,  in  the  Temple  of  the  Sun, 

He  who  would  wear  Palmyra's  crown 

Next  morn  must  strike  her  monarch  down. 

But  nought  restrains  a  jealous  man : 

A  single  word  destroyed  the  plan 

Laid  with  such  subtle,  crafty  art, 

By  raising  in  Mseonius'  heart 

A  fiend,  born  of  his  jealous  hate, 

Who  would  not  for  his  vengeance  wait. 

The  culprit,  ere  he  joined  the  dance, 

Must  from  the  king  receive  his  lance; 

The  monarch,  as  Masonius  knelt, 

A  dagger  drew  from  his  own  belt, 

And  smiling,  said  'twas  Clytie's  right 

Again  to  arm  the  pardoned  knight; 


Ii6  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

"To  her,  sir  captive,  you  belong, 
She  won  your  freedom  with  a  song, 
And  lips  that  ne'er  can  sue  in  vain 
Have  broken  with  a  word  your  chain." 

It  was  his  queen  the  monarch  meant, 

But  all  Mseonius'  thoughts  were  bent 

On  Clytie,  and  in  jealous  ire 

Again  his  blood  flowed  liquid  fire; 

And,  like  a  tiger  in  his  spring, 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  king, 

And,  ere  his  fury  could  be  stayed, 

Sheathed  in  his  heart  the  murd'rous  blade. 

One  moment  o'er  his  foe  he  hung, 

That  moment  Clytie  'tween  them  sprung, 

Too  late  the  deadly  blow  to  stay 

Or  even  turn  its  force  away. 

Dead  from  his  throne  the  king  sank  down. 

And  tottering  fell  Palmyra's  crown. 

Zenobia's  blood  with  horror  froze. 

"So  perish  all  Mseonius'  foes !" 

He  shouts,  and  holds  the  reeking  steel 

High  o'er  her  head,  ere  she  can  feel 

Aught  but  a  woman's  speechless  fear 

At  death  so  awful  and  so  near. 

A  drop  of  blood  falls  on  her  cheek, — • 

It  breaks  the  spell  and  she  can  speak; 

Tossing  her  snowy  arms  on  high, 

From  her  pale  lips  there  burst  a  cry 

Of  mingled  anguish  and  dismay; 

Then,  like  a  lioness  at  bay 

She  turns,  and  seeks  in  queenly  rage 

The  grief  of  woman  to  assuage. 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  117 

At  once  she  knew  that  not  alone 
Had  he  dared  thus  assail  the  throne, 
And  nerved  herself  to  meet  the  fight, 
Avenge  her  wrong — maintain  her  right. 

"Some  of  you  staunch  the  blood,"  she  said ; 
"You,  Clytie,  raise  the  royal  head. 
The  king  is  wounded,  nothing  more. 
Ho !  guards,  I  charge  you  keep  the  door ; 
Remove  yon  traitor  from  our  sight, 
And  see  he  dies  this  very  night." 

"Methinks  this  is  a  hasty  thing: 

He  is  the  nephew  of  the  king, 

Or,  if  he's  dead,  Lord  of  the  East." 

So  spoke  aloud  the  trait'rous  priest. 

"If  he  were  dead  I  still  am  queen 

To  every  loyal  Palmyrene, 

And  it  should  be  my  earliest  care 

To  guard  my  throne.     My  lords,  beware  I 

Traitors  are  here ;  I  know  them  well, 

Although  their  names  I  do  not  tell ; 

But  listen :  all  who  intercede 

For  yon  vile  wretch,  or  even  plead 

That  I  till  morn  for  vengeance  wait, 

I  doom  at  once  to  share  his  fate." 

She  looked  so  lovely,  yet  so  grand, 
So  much  the  queen  born  to  command, 
So  worthy  of  the  crown  and  throne 
Which  she  so  boldly  called  her  own, 
That  every  loyal  heart  was  thrilled 
And  with  chivalric  reverence  filled. 


n8  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

One  moment  by  her  beautiy  awed 
They  stood,  and  then  with  one  accord, 
Burst  into  shouts  despite  the  priest, 
And  hailed  her  Sovereign  of  the  East. 
Then,  as  the  traitors  stood  dismayed, 
They  heard  upon  the  colonnade 
The  measured  tramp  of  troops  advance; 
And  fully  armed  with  sword  and  lance, 
The  royal  guard  through  every  door 
Began  its  steady  streams  to  pour. 

Two  lords  had  on  Maeonius  sprung 
When  o'er  the  queen  in  wrath  he  hung; 
He  strove  to  shake  them  off  in  vain, — 
They  held  him  till  that  martial  train 
Swept  round  the  throne  with  measured  tread 
To  guard  the  living  and  the  dead. 
Then,  as  the  crowd  was  cleared  away 
From  where  his  murdered  kinsman  lay, 
Beside  that  prostrate  form  he  sees 
Clytie  upon  her  bended  knees : 
As  o'er  the  dead  in  grief  she  hung 
With  fiercest  rage  his  heart  was  wrung. 
Was  it  for  this  he  vengeance  sought, 
For  this  that  deed  of  murder  wrought, 
To  see  her  kneeling  prostrate  there 
Abandoned  unto  love's  despair? 
Sharp  was  the  pang  his  spirit  knew, 
For  sense  of  suffering  keener  grew 
As  hope  within  his  bosom  died. 
"Now  welcome,  death,"  he  sternly  cried, 
"To  end  at  once  this  bitter  strife — 
No  pang  for  me  so  sharp  as  life." 


Clytie    and    Zenobia.  119 

Tlien  from  his  captors  broke  away, 
Caught  up  the  dagger  where  it  lay, 
And  plunging  it  in  his  own  side, 
Fell  down  at  Clyde's  feet,  and  died. 

To  grief  Zenobia  now  gave  way, 
Nor  sought  the  bitter  tide  to  stay; 
The  queen  avenged,  the  woman  wept, 
And  neither  tears  nor  vengeance  slept; 
For  ere  the  funeral  rites  were  done, 
She,  as  the  priestes  of  the  Sun, 
And  sovereign  monarch  of  the  East, 
Passed  sentence  on  the  trait'rous  priest. 
She  was  Palmyra — woman's  grief 
In  royal  power  sought  relief; 
Secure  as  when  she  shared  a  throne 
Queen  of  the  East  she  reigned  alone, 
Inscribed  her  name  on  history's  page, 
And  shone,  the  woman  of  her  age. 

But  Clytie,  like  a  fading  flower, 
Drooped  from  that  fearful,  fatal  hour, 
When  at  the  queen's  command  she  raised 
The  royal  head,  and  wildly  gazed 
Into  that  face  which  always  wore 
For  her  a  genial  smile  before. 
They  thought  her  dead,  but  though  alive, 
The  shock  she  did  not  long  survive; 
For  ere  the  palm-tree  from  its  crown 
Another  withered  leaf  cast  down,18 
The  rose  its  monthly  blossoms  shed, 
The  water-lily  drooped  its  head, — 


I2O  Clytie    and    Zenobia. 

The  orange-buds  had  burst  in  bloom 

To  deck  fair  Clytie  for  the  tomb; 

The  bride  of  Death  she  calmly  slept 

While  round  her  bier  young  maidens  wept, 

As  they  with  loving  fingers  twined 

A  wreath  her  marble  brow  to  bind, 

Singing,  in  voices  sweet  and  low, 

A  solemn  dirge  of  wailing  woe. 

DIRGE. 

The  Heliotrope  is  withered  now, 

Her  god-like  Sun  has  set; 
But  though  Death's  garlands  bind  her  brow 

His  eyes  with  tears  are  wet : 

He  weeps,  he  weeps  to  take  the  prize 

That  love  alone  has  won ; 
Though  on  her  bier  the  maiden  lies, 

Her  soul  is  with  the  Sun. 

O!  Death,  the  victory  is  not  thine 

When  life  for  love  we  give — 
And  long  as  yon  bright  sun  shall  shine 

The  Heliotrope  will  live; 

Will  live  in  other  hearts  to  bloom, 

For  love  can  never  die, 
But  sheds  on  earth  its  sweet  perfume, 

Eternal  as  the  sky. 


Notes   for   Clytie   and   Zenobia.      121 


NOTES  FOR  CLYTIE  AND  ZENOBIA. 

1  Among  the  most  remarkable  ruins  of  Palmyra  are 
those  of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun,  which  planet  was 
worshipped  in  Persia  and  Syria.  The  Magi,  or  priests 
of  the  Sun,  were  divided  into  three  orders, — the  first 
consisted  of  the  inferior  priests,  who  conducted  the 
ordinary  ceremonies  of  religion,  the  second  presided 
over  the  sacred  fire,  and  the  third  was  the  Archimagus 
or  high-priest.  The  office  of  priest  was  generally  held 
by  the  reigning  sovereign ;  the  Roman  Emperor  Helio- 
gabalus  had  himself  made  a  priest  of  the  Sun,  and  in 
troduced  its  worship  at  Rome.  Strabo  relates  that 
"The  altars  of  the  Magi  were  attended  by  priests  who 
daily  renewed  the  sacred  fire,  accompanying  the  cere 
mony  with  music !"  The  new  year,  which  fell  with 
the  Syrians  in  spring,  was  celebrated  with  great  pomp, 
and  the  rising  of  the  sun  eagerly  watched  for  by  the 
priests,  who  foretold  from  the  appearance  of  the  heav 
ens  then  the  leading  events  of  the  year.  Bulls,  rams, 
and  cocks  were  sacrificed  to  the  sun,  and  vestal  vir 
gins  attended  in  the  temple.  Heliogabalus  gave  great 
offense  by  marrying  one  of  these  virgins.  Zoroaster 
was  a  reformer  of  the  Magians,  and  collected  their  doc 
trines  and  rules  of  worship  in  the  sacred  books  of  the 
Zend,  called  the  Zend-Avesta.  See  Gibbon,  and  Biog 
raphic  Universelle,  Ancienne  et  Moderne,  vol.  Hi.  p. 
434 ;  also,  Oracles  of  Zoroaster. 

1  The  attar,  or  otto,  of  roses  can  only  be  extracted 
from  roses  that  have  bloomed  in  clear  dry  weather. — 
Tournefort's  Voyage  du  Levant. 

*  The  oriental  name  of  Palmyra  was  Tadmor,  which 
signifies  the  same  as  Palmyra,  "the  place  of  the  palm- 
trees."     See  Josephus. 

*  The    accounts    of    the    origin    of    Odenatus    differ. 
Agathias  makes  him  of  mean  descent,  but  other  writers 
state  that  he  exercised  hereditary  sway  over  the  Arab 
tribes    in    the   vicinity    of   Palmyra.      The     manner     in 
which  he  attained  to  the  supremacy  of  Palmyra  is  not 


122     Notes   for   Clytie   and   Zenobia. 

clearly  stated,  but  he  succeeded  his  father,  Septimius 
Airanes,  and  raised  Palmyra  to  a  first-class  power. 
After  the  defeat  and  capture  of  Valerian  by  Sapor, 
king  of  Persia,  Odenatus,  to  propitiate  the  conqueror, 
sent  him  a  magnificent  present  and  a  respectful  letter ; 
Sapor  haughtily  ordered  the  gift  to  be  thrown  into  the 
Euphrates,  and  replied  to  the  letter  in  terms  of  indig 
nant  contempt.  Odenatus  immediately  took  the  field, 
and  defeated  Sapor,  driving  him  to  the  gates  of  Ctesi- 
phon. — Biographic  Universelle,  vol.  xxx.  p.  494,  Art. 
"Saint  Martin." 

'  "Modern  Europe  has  produced  several  illustrious 
women  who  have  sustained  with  glory  the  weight  of 
empire ;  nor  is  our  own  age  destitute  of  such  distin 
guished  characters.  But,  if  we  except  the  doubtful 
achievements  of  Semiramis,  Zenobia,  the  celebrated 
queen  of  Palmyra  and  the  East,  is  perhaps  the  only 
female  whose  superior  genius  broke  through  the  servile 
indolence  imposed  on  her  sex  by  the  climate  and  man 
ners  of  Asia.  She  claimed  her  descent  from  the  Mace 
donian  kings  of  Egypt,  equaled  in  beauty  her  ancestor 
Cleopatra,  and  far  surpassed  that  princess  in  chastity 
and  valor.  Zenobia  was  esteemed  the  most  lovely,  as 
well  as  the  most  heroic  of  her  sex.  She  was  of  dark 
complexion,  her  teeth  were  of  pearly  whiteness,  and 
her  large  black  eyes  sparkled  with  uncommon  fire,  tem 
pered  by  the  most  attractive  sweetness !  Her  voice  was 
strong  and  harmonious.  Her  manly  understanding  was 
strengthened  and  adorned  by  study.  She  was  not  igno 
rant  of  the  Latin  tongue,  but  possessed  in  equal  perfec 
tion  the  Greek,  the  Syriac,  and  the  Egyptian  languages. 
This  accomplished  woman  gave  her  hand  to  Odenatus, 
who  from  a  private  station  had  raised  himself  to  the 
dominion  of  the  East.  She  soon  became  the  friend 
and  companion  of  a  hero.  In  the  intervals  of  war  Ode 
natus  passionately  delighted  in  the  exercise  of  hunt 
ing  ;  he  pursued  with  ardor  the  wild  beasts  of  the  des 
ert, — lions,  panthers,  and  bears ;  and  the  ardor  of  Zeno 
bia  in  this  dangerous  amusement  was  not  inferior  to 
his  own.  She  inured  her  constitution  to  fatigue,  dis 
dained  the  use  of  a  covered  carriage,  generally  ap 
peared  on  horseback  in  a  military  habit,  and  sometimes 


Notes    for    Clytie    and    Zenobia.    123 

marched  several  miles  on  foot  at  the  head  of  the 
troops. 

"The  success  of  Odenatus  was  in  a  great  measure 
ascribed  to  her  incomparable  prudence  and  fortitude. 
Their  splendid  victories  over  the  Great  King,  whom 
they  twice  pursued  as  far  as  the  gates  of  Ctesiphon, 
laid  the  foundations  of  their  united  fame  and  power. 

"Invincible  in  war,  the  Palmyrenian  prince  was  cut 
off  by  domestic  treason,  and  his  favorite  amusement 
was  the  cause,  or  at  least  the  occasion  of  his  death. 

"His  nephew  Masonius  presumed  to  dart  his  javelin 
before  that  of  his  uncle ;  and,  though  admonished  of 
his  error,  repeated  the  insolence.  As  a  monarch  and 
a  sportsman,  Odenatus  was  provoked,  took  away  his 
horse,  a  mark  of  infamy  among  the  barbarians,  and 
chastised  the  rash  youth  by  a  short  confinement.  The 
offense  was  soon  forgotten,  but  the  punishment  was 
remembered ;  and  Mseoniust  with  a  few  daring  asso 
ciates,  assassinated  his  uncle  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
entertainment.  But  he  only  obtained  the  pleasure  of 
revenge  by  this  bloody  deed ;  he  had  scarcely  time  to 
assume  the  title  of  Augustus  before  he  was  sacrificed 
by  Zenobia  to  the  memory  of  her  husband.  With  the 
assistance  of  his  most  faithful  friends  she  immediately 
filled  the  throne,  and  governed  with  manly  counsels 
Palmyra,  Syria,  and  the  East  above  five  years." 

"According  to  some  Christian  writers,  Zenobia  was 
a  Jewess." — Gibbon's  Roman  Empire,  chap,  xi.,  with 
notes. 

4  Thalestris,  a  queen  of  the  Amazons,  who  marched 
with  three  hundred  women  twenty-five-days'  journey 
through  hostile  nations  to  meet  Alexander. — Justinian, 
xii.  3. 

"Ducit  Amazonidum  lunatis  agmina  peltis." — Virgil, 
A  en.  i.  490. 

7  Jupiter,  to  avoid  the  jealous  wrath  of  Juno,  ap 
proached  Leda  under  the  form  of  a  swan. 

*  The  peacock  is  an  Indian  bird,  and,  according  to 
Theophrastus,  was  introduced  into  Greece  from  the 
East. 

1  The  Syrians  scattered  amaranth  flowers  over  their 
couches,  that  they  might  inhale  the  perfume,  and  used 


124     Notes    for   Clytie   and   Zenobia. 

pillows  stuffed  with  dried  rose-leaves. — Stephen's 
Persia. 

L0  The  wine  of  Chios,  so  much  esteemed  by  the  an 
cients,  is  still  held  in  great  repute.  The  Chians  are 
said  to  have  first  known  the  art  of  cultivating  the  vine, 
which  was  taught  them  by  CEnopion,  king  of  Chios 
and  son  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne. — Mythologie  Noel  et 
Chapsal. 

11  Clytie  was  a  nymph  beloved  by  Apollo,  who 
changed  her  to  a  heliotrope,  a  blue  flower,  abundant 
in  the  Grecian  Isles,  which  turns  ever  towards  the  sun. 
— Mythologie  Noel  et  Chapsal. 

a  The  ostrich  hides  its  eggs  in  the  sand,  and  leaves 
them  to  be  hatched  by  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

L*  The  orange-tree  in  the  West  Indies  bears  fruits, 
buds,  and  blossoms  all  at  one  time  on  the  same  bough. 

11  Prometheus  had  formed  a  figure  of  clay,  and 
Minerva  beholding  it  offered  her  aid  in  procuring  any 
thing  in  heaven  which  might  contribute  to  its  perfec 
tion,  and  bore  him  to  heaven  on  her  shield  that  he 
might  judge  for  himself  what  he  required.  Seeing 
everything  animated  by  the  celestial  heat,  he  secretly 
applied  his  ferula  to  the  wheel  of  the  sun's  chariot, 
and  thus  stole  some  of  the  fire,  with  which  he  animated 
his  figure  of  clay.  Jupiter,  to  punish  the  theft,  bound 
him  to  a  rock,  with  vultures  ever  gnawing  his  liver. 

10  Pygmalion,  a  celebrated  sculptor  of  the  island  of 
Cyprus,  became  so  enamored  with  an  ivory  statue  of 
his  own  making,  that  he  prayed  Venus  and  the  gods 
to  animate  it,  which  they  did. — Ovid,  Met.  x.  9. 

16  Asphodels  were  planted  by  the  Persians  in  ceme 
teries,  because  they  believed  the  spirits  of  the  departed 
delighted  in  the  perfume. — Dictionnaire  Botanique. 

11  "Car  le  poete  est  un  oiseau ; 
Mais  captif,   ses  elans  se  brisent 
Contre  un  invisible  reseau." 

Theophile  Gautier. 

M  The  Palma  Real  Oreodoxa,  or  Royal  Palm,  losts 
one  leaf  from  the  lower  part  of  its  crown  every  month, 
while  a  new  one  springs  from  the  upper  part  to  sup 
ply  its  place. — Dr.  Turnbull. 


The    Organ.  125 


THE  ORGAN. 
A  Legend  from  the  German  of  Herder. 

Oh,  temple  by  God's  breath  inspired! 

Who  first  contrived  your  wond'rous  frame, 
Whence  voices  of  all  living  things 

Together  praise  Jehovah's  name? 
Now,  wailing  misereres  shed 

A  heart  appalling  groan  abroad  ; 
Then  plaintive  flute  and  cymbals  clang, 

With  martial  clarion's  blast  accord. 
The  hautboy's  scream  blends  boldly  with 

A  nation's  shout  of  jubilee, 
Whilst  over  all  the  trumpet's  notes 

Exultant  tell  of  victory. 

From  piping  reed  the  strain  ascends 

To  timbrel's  thunder.    "Hark!  the  dead 
Are  stirring,  graves  are  opening — 

'Tis  the  last  judgment's  trumpet  dread! 
How  hovering  hang  the  expectant  tones 

On  all  creation's  outspread  wings. 
Jehovah  comes!  His  thunders  roll 

Before  Him  bow  all  living  things. 


126  The    Organ. 

Now,  in  soft-breathing  words  he  speaks 
To  human  hearts  that  trembling — awed, 

Bow  down  in  prayer,  then  with  one  voice 
Shout  Hallelujah  to  the  Lord. 

The  son  of  Maia  strung  the  lyre, 
Apollo  tuned  the  joyous  lute, 

While  from  the  Shepherd's  simple  reed 
Pan  formed  the  sweetly  plaintive  flute; 

A  great  Pan  was  he  who  gave 
Creation's  glorious  song  a  voice, 

And  let  the  yearning  human  soul 
Hear  earth  and  sea  with  Heaven  rejoice. 

Disdaining  music  of  the  strings 

Cecilia — noblest  Roman  maid — 
That  she  might  hear  Creation's  song, 

Deep  in  her  heart  with  fervor  prayed: 
"Oh !  let  me  hear  that  song  of  praise 

Those  holy  three  sang  in  the  fire, 
Oh !  let  my  longing  soul  drink  in 

The  music  of  the  Heavenly  choir." 
Lo!  by  her  side  an  angel  stands, 

Who  oft  appeared  to  her  in  prayer; 
He  touched  her  ear — entranced  she  heard 

Creation's  song  roll  through  the  air. 
Stars,  sun  and  moon,  the  Heavenly  host — • 

The  rolling  seasons — day  and  night — 
The  ice  and  snow — the  frost  and  storm — 

The  dew  and  rain,  darkness  and  light — 
Mountains  and  hills  and  all  green  things — 

Fountains  and  streams,  seas,  rocks  and  wood, 


The    Organ.  127 

The  souls  in  Heaven  and  tribes  of  earth, 
Praised  God  the  merciful  and  good! 

In  adoration  she  sank  down, 
"And  now,  Oh!  angel,  let  me  hear 

The  echo  of  this  song,"  she  cried, 
"In  music  meet  for  mortal  ear." 

With  speed  an  artist  then  he  sought 

Whom  Bazaleel's  rapt  soul  inspired, 
Measure  and  number  in  his  hand 

In  silence  placed,  and  then  retired. 
An  edifice  of  harmonies 

Cathedral-like  he  reared,  whence  rang 
In  one  according  voice  of  praise 

The  Gloria  which  the  angels  sang; 
Then,  all  great  Christendom  intoned 

Her  lofty  credo,  blessed  tie 
Together  binding  human  souls ; 

But  when  at  sacrament  the  cry 
He  comes !  He  comes !  rolled  through  the  air 

The  spirits  of  the  saints  above 
Came  down,  and  in  devotion  took 

The  offering  of  Eternal  Love. 
Earth  and  Heaven  became  one  choir, 

The  sinner  at  the  temple  door 
Quaked,  when  he  seemed  to  hear  the  trump 

Proclaim,  the  day  when  Hope  is  o'er. 

Cecilia  gratefully  rejoiced, 

For  she  had  found  the  saint's  communion 
The  Christian  unity  desired 

By  all  who  seek  the  Spirit's  union. 


128  The    Organ. 

"What  shall  I  call,"  said  she,  "this  stream 

"Of  harmony  which  bears  the  soul 
Upon  its  waves  to  that  broad  sea 

Where  all  Eternity  doth  roll?" 
"Call  it,"  the  angel  said,  "what  thou 

In  prayer  didst  yearningly  desire, 
The  Organ  of  that  mighty  soul 

Which  sleeps  in  all  and  doth  aspire 
In  richest  labyrinth  of  sound 

The  hymn  of  Nature  to  intone 
And,  in  devotion  echo  back 

Creation's  song  before  the  Throne." 


The  Guard  Around  the  Tomb.       129 


THE  GUARD  AROUND  THE  TOMB. 

What  is  this  solemn  sound  we  hear? 

It  breaks  upon  a  nation's  ear 

Like  Ocean's  sob  upon  the  shore, 

The  wail  of  storms  whose  wrath  is  o'er. 

From  proud  Virginia's  mountains  grand 

It  swells  through  all  our  Southern  land. 

A  country  mourning  o'er  its  slain, 
Who  gave  their  lives,  and  not  in  vain, 
Since  in  its  heart  their  mem'ry  blooms 
Fresh  as  these  flowers  upon  their  tombs. 
Their  toil  is  o'er,  their  labors  cease. 
In  war  they  died,  but  died  for  peace. 

They  bravely  fought  and  nobly  fell, 
And  Fame  their  glorious  deeds  shall  tell, 
When  she  decrees  a  crown  of  bay 
No  power  on  earth  her  hand  can  stay, 
And  on  these  graves  a  wreath  is  laid 
No  storm  can  change,  no  time  can  fade. 

Where  she  has  placed  this  deathless  crown 
Let  woman  cast  her  roses  down, 
And  Love  and  Fame  forever  stand 
A  guard  of  honor,  hand  in  hand, 
Around  these  graves  where  heroes  lie 
Who  fought  for  right  nor  feared  to  die. 
May  10,  1872. 


130  Oremus. 


OREMUS. 

The  following  deserves  to  be  classed  among  the  best 
devotional  poems  of  the  language.  It  has  all  the  sweet 
ness  of  Keble,  with  a  strength  all  its  own.  It  com 
bines  the  logic  which  convinces  with  the  sympathy 
that  converts,  and  we  feel  compelled  to  yield  to  its 
solemn  and  irresistible  appeal. 

When  dark  the  road  and  sore  the  feet, 

When  desolate  the  way, 
When  needing  strength,  and  hope,  and  faith, 

O,  brethren,  "Let  us  pray." 

Prayer  is  the  culture  of  the  wheat, 

The  weeding  of  the  tares, 
And  oft  in  prayer  an  angel  we 

Might  shelter  unawares. 

A  heartfelt  wish  that  we  could  pray 

Is  in  itself  a  prayer, 
For  'tis  the  gasping  of  the  soul 

For  freer,  purer  air. 

Dost  thou  object  "unasked  He  gives"? 

Yes,  brother,  this  is  true, 
But  e'en  His  blessings  blessing  need, 

To  make  them  blessed  to  you. 


Oremus.  131 

"I  may  ask  wrong,  He'll  give  what's  best, 

I  will  confide  in  this." 
O,  brother,  he  who  asks  for  nought 

Must  always  ask  amiss. 

"What  will  be  will  be"  sayest  thou? 

That  rests  with  Him  not  thee, 
It  is  enough — He  gives  thee  power 

To  will  what  thou  shalt  be. 

He  never  asks,  "Wilt  thou  be  made?" 

When  He  creates  a  soul, 
But  to  that  soul  He  gives  a  will 

Then  asks,  "Wilt  thou  be  whole?" 

"He  knows  my  wants,  why  should  I  pray 

This  boon  from  Him  to  gain?" 
We  know  not  why,  but  He  has  said 

"Ask — and  thou  shalt  obtain." 

He  might  have  made  the  marriage  wine 

At  Cana  with  a  word, 
The  water  by  the  servants  brought 

Was  nothing  to  the  Lord. 

What  He  commands  that  we  should  do, 

And  if  our  souls  decline 
He'll  leave  them  to  their  emptiness 

And  make  no  water  wine. 

Then  when  He  bids  thee  fill  the  pots, 

O,  fill  them  to  the  brim, 
And  fear  not  that  thou  ask  too  much, — 

Thou  canst  not  weary  Him. 


132        A  Legend  of  St.  Augustine. 


A  LEGEND  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

With  study  spent,  and  worn  with  care, 
A  Bishop  wandered  by  the  sea ; 

A  rev'rend  father  of  the  church 
And  skilled  in  its  disputes  was  he. 

Long  had  he  sought  to  know  that  truth, 
Whose  height  no  human  mind  can  reach, 

And  earnest  prayer  for  light  divine 
On  what  he  should,  and  should  not  teach. 

What  was  the  God-head,  over  which 
The  subtle  Greek,  in  keen  debate, 

Had  wrangled  until  Christian  love 

Seemed  almost  quenched  in  deadly  hate? 

As  wrapped  in  thought  he  slowly  walked, 
Scarce  conscious  of  the  cooling  breeze, 

Upon  the  ocean's  sandy  shore 
A  little  child  at  work  he  sees. 

"What  dost  thou,  little  one?"  he  cried, 
As  with  a  conch  shell  in  his  hand, 

The  child  bore  water  from  the  sea 
To  fill  a  cell  scooped  in  the  sand. 


A  Legend  of  St.  Augustine.        133 

"Just  what  you  vainly  strive  to  do," 
With  solemn  look  the  child  replied, 

"I  seek  to  drain  the  ocean  dry 
To  fill  a  hollow  at  its  side. 

"As  well  do  this,  as  try  to  crowd 

Infinite   truth   in   finite  mind, 
Or,  with  thy  puny  human  power, 

The  secret  things  of  God  to  find." 

Started  to  hear  from  childish  lips, 
A  truth  so  pointed  yet  so  grand, 

The  Bishop  bowed  his  head  and  said, 
"Before  Thee,  Lord,  rebuked  I  stand." 

But  when  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  saw 
The  child  had  vanished  from  the  beach, 

He  knew  an  angel  had  been  sent 
To  him,  this  mighty  truth  to  teach. 


134  Tidal  Bells. 


TIDAL  BELLS. 

Instead  of  lighthouses,  bells  are  hung  on  the  shoals 
of  Penobscot  Bay,  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  rung  by 
the  motion  of  the  water  as  it  sweeps  over  the  sunken 
rocks,  and  thus  warn  of  their  proximity. 

'Twas  in  the  glorious  month  of  June, 
As  morn  was  breaking  "still  and  gray, 

That  first  I  heard  the  tidal  bells 
Ring  out  upon  Penobscot  Bay. 

Green  hills  in  softened  distance  rose, 

Placid  the  water  as  a  lake ; 
While  waiting  for  the  sun's  first  smile 

Its  dimpling  isles  seemed  scarce  awake. 

Then  flushed  the  crimson  glow  of  day, 
The  misty  clouds  their  pinions  furled, 

Like  guardian  angels  who  all  night 

Had  watched  above  the  sleeping  world. 

And  floating  now  toward  the  east 
Had  gathered  there  in  grand  array, 

To  enter  when  the  portal  ope'd 

Through  which  passed  out  the  coming  day. 


Tidal  Bells.  135 

And  as  they  caught  the  glorious  light 
Of  Paradise  that  through  it  streamed, 

Its  golden  glow,  its  rosy  flush 

Reflected  from  their  pinions  gleamed. 

So  fair  that  scene,  so  still,  so  calm, 
I  did  not  think  of  danger  there, 

But  thought  those  solemn  warning  bells 
A  call  to  early  morning  prayer. 

But  as  we  glided  swiftly  on, 

Ere  one  had  in  the  distance  died 

Another  caught  the  falling  note, 
Rung  by  the  surging  of  the  tide. 

It  was  indeed  a  call  to  prayer, 

A  call  rung  out  by  Nature's  hand, 

Not  in  a  chapel  raised  by  man, 
But  in  her  own  cathedral  grand. 

In  solemn  awe  I  bowed  my  head, 

And  from  my  restless  heart  there  rose 

A  silent  prayer,  that  tidal  bells 

Might  ring  for  me  until  life's  close. 

Might  softly  sound  when  all  was  calm, 
To  warn  of  hidden  rock  or  shoal, 

And  loudly  ring  when  passion's  tide 
Was  surging  high  within  my  soul. 

For  ah !  as  down  life's  varied  stream 
We  madly  rush  or  gently  float, 

We  all  may  hear  its  tidal  bells, 
If  we  but  list  their  warning  note. 


136  Cleopatra's    Soliloquy. 


CLEOPATRA'S  SOLILOQUY. 

This  poem  first  appeared  in  the  Galaxy  of  April,  1877. 
It  is  amenable  to  the  criticism  of  that  class  which  would 
have  the  limits  of  Art  less  broad  than  the  limits  of  Na 
ture.  Mrs.  Clarke,  in  a  note  to  the  writer,  says  of  it: 
"I  meant  it  to  be  a  picture  of  passionate  love  in  a 
woman  who  did  not  feel  the  restraints  of  society,  or 
necessity  of  concealing  her  passion."  In  that  light, 
doubtless,  it  will  be  read,  and  its  classic  beauty  recog 
nized  as  being  within  the  allowed  domain  of  creative 
art. 

What  care  I  for  the  tempest?    What  care  I  for 

the  rain? 

If  it  beat  upon  my  bosom,  would  it  cool  its  burn 
ing  pain — 
This  pain  that  ne'er  has  left  me  since  on  his 

heart  I  lay, 
And  sobbed  my  grief  at  parting  as  I'd  sob  my 

soul  away? 
O  Antony !  Antony !  Antony !  when  in  thy  circling 

arms 
Shall  I  sacrifice  to  Eros  my  glorious  woman's 

charms, 
And  burn  life's  sweetest  incense  before  his  sacred 

shrine 
With  the  living  fire  that  flashes  from  thine  eyes 

into  mine  ? 


Cleopatra's    Soliloquy.  137 

0  when  shall  I  feel  thy  kisses  rain  down  upon  my 

face, 

As,  a  queen  of  love  and  beauty,  I  lie  in  thine  em 
brace, 

Melting — melting — melting,  as  a  woman  only  can 

When  she's  a  willing  captive  in  the  conquering 
arms  of  man, 

As  he  towers  a  god  above  her,  and  to  yield  is  not 
defeat, 

For  love  can  own  no  victor  if  love  with  love  shall 
meet? 

1  still  have  regal  splendor,  I  still  have  queenly 

power, 

And — more  than  all — unfaded  is  woman's  glori 
ous  dower. 

But  what  care  I  for  pleasure?  What's  beauty  to 
me  now, 

Since  Love  no  longer  places  his  crown  upon  my 
brow? 

I  have  tasted  its  elixir,  its  fire  has  through  me 
flashed, 

But  when  the  wine  glowed  brightest  from  my 
eager  lip  'twas  dashed. 

And  I  would  give  all  Egypt  but  once  to  feel  the 
bliss 

Which  thrills  through  all  my  being  whene'er  I 
meet  his  kiss. 

The  tempest  loudly  rages,  my  hair  is  wet  with 
rain, 

But  it  does  not  still  my  longing,  or  cool  my  burn 
ing  pain. 

For  Nature's  storms  are  nothing  to  the  raging  of 
my  soul 


138  Cleopatra's    Soliloquy. 

When   it  burns   with   jealous   frenzy  beyond  a 

queen's  control. 
I  fear  not  pale  Octavia — that   haughty    Roman 

dame — 

My  lion  of  the  desert — my  Antony  can  tame. 
I  fear  no  Persian  beauty,  I  fear  no  Grecian  maid : 
The  world  holds  not  the  woman  of  whom  I  am 

afraid. 

But  I'm  jealous  of  the  rapture  I  tasted  in  his  kiss, 
And  would  not  that  another  should  share  with 

me  that  bliss. 
No  joy  would  I  deny  him,  let  him  cull  it  where  he 

will. 

So  mistress  of  his  bosom  is  Cleopatra  still : 
So  that  he  feels  for  ever,  when  he  Love's  nectar 

sips, 
'Twas    sweeter — sweeter — sweeter    when    tasted 

on  my  lips; 
So  that  all  other  kisses,  since  he  has  drawn  in 

mine, 

Shall  be  unto  my  lover  as  "water  after  wine." 
Awhile  let  Caesar  fancy  Octavia's  pallid  charms, 
Can  hold  Rome's  proudest  consul  a  captive  in  her 

arms, 
Her  cold  embrace  but  brightens  the  memory  of 

mine, 
And  for  my  warm  caresses  he  in  her  arms  shall 

pine. 
'Twas  not  for  love  he  sought  her,  but  for  her 

princely  dower ; 
She  brought  him  Caesar's  friendship,  she  brought 

him  kingly  power. 


Cleopatra's    Soliloquy.  139 

I  should  have  bid  him  take  her,  had  he  my  counsel 

sought. 
I've  but  to  smile  upon  him  and  all  her  charms  are 

nought ; 
For  I  would  scorn  to  hold  him  by  but  a  single 

hair, 
Save  his  own  craving  for  me  when  I'm  no  longer 

there ; 
And  I  will  show  yon  Roman,  that  for  one  kiss 

from  me 

Wife — fame — and  even  honor  to  him  shall  noth 
ing  be ! 
Throw   wide  the   window,   Isis — fling  perfumes 

o'er  me  now, 

And  bind  the  Lotus  blossoms  again  upon  my  brow. 
The   rain   has    ceased   its   weeping,   the   driving 

storm  is  past, 
And  calm  are  Nature's  pulses  that  lately  beat  so 

fast. 

Gone  is  my  jealous  frenzy,  and  Eros  reigns  serene, 
The  only  god  e'er  worshiped  by  Egypt's  haughty 

queen. 
With   Antony — my   lover — I'll  kneel  before  his 

shrine 
Till  the  loves  of  Mars  and  Venus  are  nought  to 

his  and  mine; 
And  down  through  coming  ages,  in  every  land 

and  tongue, 

With  them  shall  Cleopatra  and  Antony  be  sung. 
Burn  sandal-wood  and  cassia,  let  the  vapor  round 

me  wreathe, 
And  mingle  with  the  incense  the  Lotus  blossoms 

breathe. 


140  Cleopatra's    Soliloquy. 

Let  India's  spicy  odors  and  Persia's  perfumes 

rare 

Be  wafted  on  the  pinions  of  Egypt's  fragrant  air, 
With  the  sighing  of  the  night  breeze,  the  river's 

rippling  flow, 
Let  me  hear  the  notes  of  music  in  cadence  soft 

and  low. 
Draw  round  my  couch  its  curtains ;  I'd  bathe  my 

soul  in  sleep ; 

I  feel  its  gentle  languor  upon  me  slowly  creep. 
O,  let  me  cheat  my  senses  with  dreams  of  future 

bliss, 

In  fancy  feel  his  presence,  in  fancy  taste  his  kiss, 
In  fancy  nestle  closely  against  his  throbbing  heart, 
And  throw  my  arms  around  him,  no  more — no 

more  to  part. 
Hush !  hush !  his  spirit's  pinions  are  rustling  in 

my  ears : 
He  comes  upon  the  tempest  to  calm  my  jealous 

fears ; 

He  comes  upon  the  tempest  in  answer  to  my  call. 
Wife — fame — and  even  honor — for  me  he  leaves 

them  all ; 

And  royally  I'll  welcome  my  lover  to  my  side. 
I  have  won  him — I  have  won  him,  from  Caesar 

and  his  bride. 


Thanksgiving    Psalm.  141 


THANKSGIVING  PSALM. 

(Dedicated    to    the    Philosophical    Society    of 
Chicago. ) 

'The  Earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fullness  thereof.' 

At  thy  footstool,  Great  Jehovah, 

See  a  Nation  lowly  bends, 
While  a  Psalm  of  deep  Thanksgiving 

From  its  grateful  heart  ascends. 

Thou  art  Wisdom,  Strength  and  Power; 

'Tis  Thy  Force  alone  creates; 
'Tis  Thy  Spirit  all-pervading, 

Mother  Nature  animates. 

From  her  mighty  womb,  prolific, 
To  Thy  off  spring  she  gives  birth ; 

And  we  thank  Thee,  Great  Jehovah, 
For  the  fullness  of  the  Earth. 

'Twas  Thy  Force  that  moved  the  water, 
And  from  darkness  made  the  light, 

Gathered  up  the  floating  atoms, 
And  the  dry  land  brought  to  sight. 


142  Thanksgiving    Psalm. 

From  that  Force,  forever  acting, 
All  good  things  of  Earth  must  flow, 

Mind  and   Matter  both  pervading; 
This — and  only  this — we  know. 

Nature's  changes  Science  teaches— 
Her  creation  is  concealed; 

Great  Jehovah's  hidden  secrets 
Unto  Man  are  not  revealed. 

But  no  less  we  thank  and  praise  Thee; 

Call  it  Matter — call  it  Force — 
'Tis  Thy  Spirit,  all  pervading, 
That  of  Nature  is  the  source. 
A.  D.  1877. 


Resurgam.  143 


RESURGAM. 

Sung  to  the  national  air  of  Russia,  May  10,  1878, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  delivery  of  a  memorial-day  ad 
dress,  at  New  Berne,  by  Governor  Vance. 

Rise,  crowned  with  hope,  O!  prostrate  South, 

arise ! 
And  from  these  graves  lift  up  your  streaming 

eyes; 

No  longer  mournful  glances  backward  cast, 
No  longer  live  within  a  buried  past! 

Arise!  like  Abram,  put  away  your  dead, 
The  rough  and  thorny  present  calmly  tread, 
And,  with  a  heart  that  never  knew  disgrace, 
With  steadfast  look  the  unknown  future  face. 

As  these  met  death,  so  bravely  meet  ye  life, 
Cast  from  your  soul  the  bitterness  of  strife, 
And  bury  deep  in  "dust  of  old  desires" 
Its  still  unquenched  and  slowly  smouldering  fires. 

Rise !  crowned  with  thorns  and  bleeding  lift  thy 

cross, 

Life  brings  no  real  gain  without  some  loss, 
The  battle  o'er,  a  sentinel  you  stand, 
To  guard  the  sacred  freedom  of  our  land. 


144  Resurgam. 

Then   watch   ye   well   the  sepulchre  where  lies 
A  nation's  buried  hope,  till  it  shall  rise, 
And  coming  generations  joyful  see 
Our  fatherland  redeemed  and  free. 
May  10,  1878. 


Through  Doubt  to  Light.          145 


THROUGH  DOUBT  TO  LIGHT. 

This  philosophic  poem  syllables  the  feeling  of  the 
doubter  who  wishes  for  light — of  one  who  needs  the 
charity  of  the  Christian,  and  not  his  contumely — a 
charity  rarely  tendered — a  contumely  ready  and  un 
sparing  !  Left  to  his  unbelief  and  sequent  sufferings, 
he  turns  away  from  the  fabric  of  belief  commended  to 
him,  but  rejected  by  his  conscience,  and  determines  to 
erect  one  of  his  own,  founded  upon  the  imperishable 
rock  of  axiomatic  truths ;  instead  of  the  shifting  sands 
of  assumed  verities,  upon  which  was  builded  the  fabric 
of  belief  he  could  not  accept. 

This  poem,  and  many  of  the  following — all  written 
in  the  latest  twenty  years  of  her  life — are  ethical  in 
their  character.  It  will  be  noted,  in  taking  them  as 
a  whole,  that  while  the  authoress  clung  to  the  Faith 
of  her  Fathers,  and  her  early  teachings  and  associa 
tions,  as  embodied  in  the  Law  and  Gospel  announced 
by  the  Nazarene ;  she  doubted,  if  she  did  not  discard, 
the  dogmas,  creeds,  and  theologic  views  of  those  who 
vainly  suppose  that  Law  and  Gospel  is  not  clear  and 
complete ;  and  requires  to  be  explained  and  amended, 
under  fallible  human  effort,  and  through  the  tortuoui 
devices  of  Divinity  experts. 

I  stood  alone,  the  creeds  to  which 
My  soul  had  always  clung  gave  way, 

And  round  me  surged  a  sea  of  doubt 
Whose  restless  waves  I  could  not  stay. 


146         Through  Doubt  to  Light. 

Life  lost  its  meaning,  and  the  grave 
Seemed  unto  me  the  end  of  all. 

Goodness  was  nothing,  and  from  heaven 
I  feared  that  God  himself  must  fall. 

Friends  turned  from  me,  and  counsellors 
Upon  my  doubts  could  only  frown. 

Was  it  the  glare  of  hell  I  caught, 
Or  light  from  heaven  cast  down? 

I  could  not  tell,  but  soon  I  saw 

Old  landmarks  rise  in  that  dark  sea. 

If  heaven  must  pass  like  some  burnt  scroll, 
This  earth,  at  least,  was  left  to  me. 

If  all  religious  truth  was  dead, 

Yet  moral  truth  untouched  might  live; 

If  there  should  be  no  other  life, 

I'd  have  the  best  that  this  could  give. 

"Better,"  I  said,  "is  truth  than  lies, 
Better  the  generous  than  the  mean, 

Better  the  brave  than  the  coward  act, 
Better  the  chaste  than  the  unclean." 

My  feet  upon  this  rock  I  stayed, 

And  slowly  sank  the  waves  of  doubt: 

With  fear  and  trembling  thus  it  was 
I  wrought  my  own  salvation  out. 

Creeds  grew  to  me  but  empty  husks 
On  which  I  could  not  feed  my  soul, 

While  moral  and  religious  truth 
Blended  in  one  harmonious  whole. 


Through  Doubt  to  Light.          147 

New  faith  in  human  nature  rose 

From  the  broad,  open  sea  of  thought, 

As  statues  in  the  marble  hid 

Are  by  the  strokes  of  genius  wrought. 

'Twas  always  there, — this  glorious  faith, — 
But  cramped  and  hidden  from  my  sight, 

Till,  stroke  by  stroke,  Doubt  set  it  free, 
And  suffering  gave  my  soul  new  light. 


148  Under    the    Lava. 


UNDER   THE   LAVA. 

Original  in  conception — apt  in  comparison — this 
poem,  in  its  consummate  and  unadorned  beauty,  com 
mends  itself  to  every  subtile  fancy  and  every  sympa 
thetic  heart. 

Far  down  in  the  depths  of  my  spirit, 

Out  of  the  sight  of  man, 
Lies  a  buried  Herculaneum, 

Whose  secrets  none  may  scan. 

No  warning  cloud  of  sorrow 
Casts  its  shadow  o'er  my  way, 

No  drifting  shower  of  ashes 
Made  of  life  a  Pompeii. 

But  a  sudden  tide  of  anguish 

Like  molten  lava  rolled, 
And  hardened,  hardened,  hardened, 

As  its  burning  waves  grew  cold. 

Beneath  it  youth  was  buried, 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  trust, 

And  life  unto  me  seemed  nothing- 
Nothing  but  ashes  and  dust. 


Under    the    Lava.  149 

Oh !  it  was  glorious !  glorious ! 

That  Past,  with  its  passionate  glow, 
Its  beautiful  painted  frescoes, 

Its  statues  white  as  snow. 

When  I  tasted  Love's  ambrosia, 

As  it  melted  in  a  kiss, 
When  I  drank  the  wine  of  friendship, 

And  believed  in  earthly  bliss; 

When  I  breathed  the  rose's  perfume, 
With  lilies  wreathed  my  hair, 

And  moved  to  liquid  music 
As  it  floated  on  the  air — 

To  me  it  was  real — real, 

That  passionate,  blissful  joy 
Which  grief  may  incrust  with  lava, 

But  death  alone  can  destroy. 

Twas  a  life  all  bright  and  golden, 
Bright  with  the  light  of  love; 

A  Past  still  living,  though  buried 
With  another  life  above — 

Another  life  built  o'er  it, 

With  other  love  and  friends, 
Which  my  spirit  often  leaveth, 

And  into  the  past  descends. 

Though  buried  deep  in  ashes 

Of  burnt-out  hope  it  lies, 
Under  the  hardened  lava, 

From  which  it  ne'er  can  rise, 


150  Under    the    Lava. 

It  is  no  ruined  city — 

No   city  of  the   dead — 
When  in  the  midnight  watches 

Its  silent  streets  I  tread. 

To  me  it  changeth  never; 

Buried  in  all  its  prime, 
Not  fading,  fading,  fading, 

Under  the  touch  of  time. 

The  beautiful  frescoes  painted 

By  fancy  still  are  there, 
With  glowing  tints  unchanging 

Till  brought  to  upper  air. 

And  many  a  graceful  statue, 
In  marble  white  as  snow, 

Stands  fair  and  all  unbroken 
In  that  silent  "long  ago." 

It  is  not  dead,  but  living, 
My  glorious  buried  Past ! 

With  its  life  of  passionate  beauty, 
Its  joy  too  bright  to  last! 

But  living  under  the  lava — 
For  the  pictures  fade  away, 

And  the  statues  crumble,  crumble, 
When  brought  to  the  light  of  day; 

And  like  to  dead-sea  apples 

Is  love's  ambrosia  now, 
And  the  lilies  wither,  wither, 

If  I  place  them  on  my  brow. 


Under    the    Lava.  151 

And  so  I  keep  them  ever 

Far  down  in  the  depths  of  my  heart, 
Under  the  lava  and  ashes, 

Things  from  my  life  apart. 


152  The    Crown    Imperial. 


THE  CROWN  IMPERIAL 
A  Legend  of  Northern  Germany. 

Gentle  reader !  uncover  thy  head,  and  breathe  a  si 
lent  prayer,  for  power  to  appreciate  the  beauty  of  this 
inspiration  of  a  tenderness,  born  of  "the  wisdom  which 
cometh  from  above." 

"This  rare  and  strange  plant,"  writes  Gerarde,  "is 
called  in  Latine  Corona  Imperialis,  and  Lilium  Byzan 
tium.  The  floures  grow  on  the  top  of  the  stalke,  incom- 
passing  it  around  in  form  of  an  Imperialle  Crowne, 
hanging  their  heads  downward  as  it  were  bels.  In  the 
bottom  of  each  of  these  bels  there  is  placed  sixe  drops 
of  most  clear  shining  sweet  water,  in  taste  like  sugar, 
resembling  in  show  faire  orient  pearles;  the  which 
drops,  if  you  take  them  away,  there  do  immediately 
appear  the  like  again."  Tradition,  that  sweet  deceiver, 
says  that  these  tear-like  drops  did  not  exist  in  the 
Crown  Imperial  formerly.  The  flower  was  white — not 
of  that  peculiar  dark,  flesh  color,  deepened  with  blushes, 
as  it  now  appears ;  the  "bels"  stood  upright,  slightly 
protected  by  the  emerald  leaves  above  them.  Thus  it 
stood  in  full  glory  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane,  where 
our  Saviour  was  wont  to  walk  at  sunset  in  silent  medita 
tion. — Notes  and  Queries. 

It  was  the  hour  the  Saviour  loved — 
That  nuptial  hour  when  day  and  night 

Together  meet  in  close  embrace, 
And  with  a  silent  kiss  unite. 


The    Crown    Imperial.  153 

In  mediation  calm  He  walked, 
The  Darkness  stayed  its  lingering  tread, 

And  as  He  passed  each  loving  flower 
In  adoration  bowed  its  head. 

The  jas'mine,  scentless  all  the  day, 
Now  broke  its  box  of  spikenard  sweet, 

And  from  its  starry  calices 

Poured  spicy  odors  at  His  feet. 

All  flowers  a  richer  fragrance  breathe 
Before  Him  as  He  silent  walks, 

And  shed  the  incense  of  their  love 
Low  bending  on  their  slender  stalks. 

All — save  one  stately  lily  fair — 

Which  stood  in  conscious  beauty's  pride, 

With  her  majestic  head  unbent — 
Her  silvery  bells  all  open  wide. 

Such  beauty  caught  the  Saviour's  eye, 
He  paused  before  the  lovely  flower, 

Spoke  no  reproof  but  silent  gazed 
With  tenderly  persuasive  power. 

She  could  not  meet  that  loving  glance, 
Her  haughty  pride  before  it  fled, 

Deep  blushes  tinged  her  snowy  bells 
And  virgin  shame  bent  down  her  head. 

The  Saviour  passed  and  darkness  came, 
The  dewful  Twilight  gently  wept, 

The  flowers  their  petals  folded  up 
And  nestling  'mid  their  green  leaves  slept. 


154  The    Crown    Imperial. 

But  when  next  morning  they  awoke 

And  raised  their  heads  to  greet  the  light, 

They  saw  a  lingering  blush  still  tinge 
The   CROWN    IMPERIAL'S   spotless   white, 

Whilst  every  bell  sweet  pearly  tears 
Of  truly  deep  repentance  shed; 

And  never  more  in  haughty  pride 
Did  this  fair  lily  lift  its  head. 

And  resting  in  the  silvery  bells 

Which  hang  around  its  crown  of  green, 

The  pearly  drops  of  sorrow  still 

May  with  the  blush  of  shame  be  seen. 


De    Profundis.  155 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

Lord,  from  our  Southern  Land, 
In  mercy  lift  Thy  hand, 

Which  presses  sore; 
For  through  its  borders  wide, 
Fell  pestilence  doth  stride, 
While  famine  by  its  side 

Knocks  at  each  door. 

Lord,  keep  our  hope  alive, 
Give  us  the  strength  to  strive 

Against  this  foe; 
Before  Thy  throne  we  kneel, 
O,  Great  Physician,  heal 
The  wounds  'neath  which  we  reel 

And  end  this  woe! 

Aside  our  strife  we  lay, 

Both  North  and  South,  and  pray 

"Thy  will  be  done." 
And  with  one  voice  implore; 
That  when  this  plague  is  o'er, 
We,  as  in  days  of  yore, 

Be  truly  one. 
A.  D.  1878. 


156  Truth. 


TRUTH. 

Oh!  mighty  Power — primeval  cause 
The  unconditioned  great  "I  am"! 

Conditioned  Nature  to  Thee  bows 
And  chants  an  everlasting  psalm. 

Unlimited  in  time  and  space, 
And  all  unshackled  is  Thy  force, 

Unto  Thyself  Thou  art  a  law, 

And  of  unchanging  law  the  source. 

Before  Infinitude  like  Thine, 

Man's  finite  mind  grows  dumb  with  awe, 
As  he  from  age  to  age  attempts 

To  read  the  workings  of  Thy  law. 

Thy  crystal,   Truth,  has   many  sides, 
And  light  reflected  shines  from  all, 

But  on  no  single  human  mind 
Will  its  perfected  radiance  fall. 

Though  clouds  of  dogma  for  a  while, 
Its  never-changing  light  may  veil; 

Behind  them  it  forever  shines, 
And  o'er  them  will  at  length  prevail. 


Truth.  157 

Lo!  at  its  touch  the  blind  do  see, 

The  dumb  do  speak,  the  deaf  do  hear; 

Those  dead  in  ignorance  arise, 
Soon  as  its  shadow  doth  appear. 

A  noble  feast  it  spreads  for  all, 

But  yet  is  undiminished  still ; 
Twelve  baskets  full  were  gathered  up, 

Though  every  one  did  eat  his  fill. 

These  loaves  and  fishes  typify 

That  Truth  which  is  dispensed  for  all 

In  smallest  fragments  every  where 
Will  like  the  rays  of  sunlight  fall. 

The  finite  mind  may  eat  at  will, 

Nor  satisfy  the  hungry  soul ; 
Which  ever  crieth  "Give,  oh!  give," 

But  never  can  embrace  the  whole. 


158  Onward. 


ONWARD. 

"We  cry  onward !  to  the  heart  that  abandons  the  flesh- 
pots  of  falsehood,  even  for  a  wilderness  where  leads 
the  pillar  of  truth — be  it  fire,  be  it  cloud." — Conway. 

Onward!  ye  who  seeking  Truth, 
Put  in  her  your  perfect  trust; 

Though  the  dogmas  of  the  past, 
Crumble  round  you  into  dust. 

Saving  faith  is  trust  in  truth; 

And  the  infidel  is  one 
Who  believes  her  glorious  work, 

Is  by  falsehood  better  done. 

Testing  not  by  any  fear, 
•    As  to  where  her  footsteps  tend; 
Onward!  knowing  in  your  hearts, 
Truth  in  evil  cannot  end. 

Ye  can  look  on  fair  results, 
By  the  light  of  triumphs  past; 

See  the  lions  yet  before, 
And  the  chains  that  bind  them  fast. 


Onward.  159 

Onward !  seekers,  onward  press, 
Shades  heroic  round  you  stand; 

Whose  fidelities  have  reared 

Unto  knowledge  temples  grand. 

Truth  has  martyrs ;  Truth  has  saints, 
Who,  while  cowards  clamor  loud, 

Follow  where  her  pillar  leads; 
Be  it  fire,  or  be  it  cloud. 

Onward!  hearts  that  bravely  leave, 
Falsehood's  flesh-pots  in  the  rear; 

E'en  into  the  wilderness — 

Onward!  "fearing  nought  but  fear." 


1 60  Exegesis. 


EXEGESIS. 

"Knowledge — it  excites  prejudice  to  call  it  Science — 
is  advancing  as  irresistibly,  as  remorselessly,  as  majestic 
ally,  as  the  Ocean  moved  on  King  Canute's  chair ;  which 
represents  traditional  beliefs  and  moves  backwards  an 
inch  at  a  time." — Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Far  back  in  the  distant  ages, 

The  early  days  of  Time, 
When  the  Prophets  wrapt  their  teachings 

In  parables  sublime, 
And  foretold  the  Kings  of  Tharsis 

Their  presents  should  cast  down; 
And  Arabia  bring  her  off'ring, 

A  new-born  babe  to  crown. 

The  people  heard  them  wond'ring, 
But  their  meaning  did  not  see; 

For  they  fancied  the  Messiah 
An  earthly  prince  should  be. 

But  when  the  Virgin  Mother 

For  all  the  tribes  of  earth, 
By  the  touch  of  man  unsullied; 

To  her  first-born  child  gave  birth: 
The  Priests  and  Levites  scoffing, 

The  truth  would  not  believe, 
And  though  God-like  were  his  teachings, 

The  Christ  would  not  receive. 

Every  age  repeats  the  story, 
And  the  people  loudly  cry: 


Exegesis.  161 

"This  man  should  not  rule  o'er  us," 
While  the  Truth  they  crucify; 

But  the  touch  of  man  unsullied, 
In  the  virgin  womb  of  Time, 

'Tis  brought  unto  perfection, 
In  majesty  sublime. 

And  through  the  trackless  region, 

The  infinitude  of  space, 
Found  stepping-stones  where  science, 

The  universe  might  face; 
And  wrote  its  wondrous  teachings, 

On  Nature's  mighty  page; 
With  which  no  man  may  tamper 

In  this,  or  any  age. 

As  o'er  the  earth  remorseless, 

The  moving  glacier  crept; 
Truth — that's  knowledge  crystalized, — 

Adown  the  ages  swept; 
It  had  no  need  to  hasten, 

Its  step  though  slow  was  sure; 
Infinite  time  behind  it  lay, 

Eternity  before. 

Then  oh !  ye  men  of  Israel, 

Unto  yourselves  take  heed; 
For  if  of  man  this  counsel) 

It  never  can  succeed; 
But  ye  cannot  overthrow  it, 

Though  the  Truth  ye  crucify, 
If,  haply,  ye  are  fighting 

'Gainst  the  Lord  of  Hosts  most  High. 


1 62  What    is    Religion? 


WHAT  IS  RELIGION? 

What  is  Religion,  in  whose  name 
Such  fearful  deeds  are  wrought, 

And  dogmas  yet  more  fearful  still 
Unto  the  spirit  taught? 

"It  is  the  gift  of  God  to  man, 

And  to  none  else  beside, 
The  breath  of  life  unto  his  soul;" 

A  sage  to  me  replied. 

A  yearning  he  alone  can  feel 

In  weariness  and  grief, 
For  something  higher  than  the  known; 

A  refuge  and  relief. 

A  yearning  of  that  soul,  to  bridge 

The  chasm  which  divides 
The  known  from  the  unknown,  and  read 

The  secret  which  it  hides. 

'Twas  this  that  from  the  Psalmist's  soul 
Brought  forth  the  earnest  cry, 

"Lead  me,  My  God  !  unto  the  rock 
That's  higher  still  than  I." 


What    is    Religion?  163 

Tis  not  devotion,  worship,  praise, 

The  pious  act  or  deed, 
Though  these  may  be  the  flower  or  fruit 

That  from  its  root  proceed. 

And  as  the  earth  in  .eons  past, 

Produced  but   ferns  alone, 
That  left  the  impress  of  their  leaves 

Imbedded  in  the  stone, 

So  does  religion  in  each  age 
Express  man's  yearning  needs, 

And  leave  an  impress  on  the  race 
Recorded  in  its  deeds. 

Now  rude  and  fierce  with  human  blood 

Behold  its  altars  reek, 
While  fruit  and  flowers  are  offered  by 

The  beauty-loving  Greek. 

Gotama  and  Confucius  both, 

Like  fern  leaves  in  the  coal, 
Ere  Jesus  came  their  impress  left 

Upon  the  human  soul. 

"The  joys  of  life,  e'en  life  itself," 

Loyola  cries,  "I'll  give 
Unto  the  holy  Mother  Church, 

And  die  that  she  may  live." 

But  perfect  LOVE,  which  casts  out  fear 

And  raises  and  refines 
Life's  conduct,  is  the  living  Truth 

The  heart  of  man  enshrines. 


164  What    is    Religion? 

Creeds,  dogmas,  fables,  myths,  and  all 

Shall  crumble  and  decay, 
But  LOVE,  the  kernel,  live  when  faith, 

The  husk,  has  passed  away. 

Then  cast  aside  all  fear,  O  soul, 

Religion  cannot  die: 
The  good  and  true  of  every  age 

The  next  shall  purify. 


John    Wesley's    Foot-print.         165 


JOHN  WESLEY'S  FOOT-PRINT. 

The  summer  sun  was  shining  bright 
On  Epworth  church  one  Sunday  morn, 

When  grand  John  Wesley  humbly  came 
Back,  to  the  town  where  he  was  born. 

Back  to  its  little  parish  church 
In  singleness  of  heart  he  turned, 

To  preach  that  all  should  practice,  what 
Within  its  sacred  walls  he'd  learned. 

A  gathering  crowd  his  steps  attend, 
And  soon  the  church's  door  they  reach; 

Alas !  they  found  it  shut  and  barred ; 
Within  its  walls  he  might  not  preacfi. 

The  crowd,  indignant,  murmured  loud, 
But  Wesley  only  waved  his  hand; 

And  turning  to  his  father's  grave, 
Upon  the  tomb-stone  took  his  stand. 

"The  church,  my  friends,  is  dark  and  cold, 
But  warmed  by  God's  own  glorious  sun, 

I'll  from  this  pulpit  preach  so  plain, 
That  all  may  read  e'en  while  they  run." 


1 66         John    Wesley's    Foot-print. 

'Twas  nothing  new  he  taught  that  day, 

But  ah !  its  mem'ry  lingers  yet, 
And  Epworth  shows  upon  that  stone, 

The  print  where  Wesley's  foot  was  set. 

'Tis  but  a  legend,  yet  it  folds, 
Within  its  heart  a  lesson  grand; 

That  summer  sun,  that  close  shut  door, 

The  murmuring  crowd  that  round  it  stand. 

For  Wesley  taught  God's  tender  love 
Within  no  single  church  is  barred, 

And  left  his  foot-print  on  the  age, 
If  not  upon  that  marble  hard. 


He    of    Prayer.  167 


HE  OF  PRAYER. 

Hidden  in  the  ancient  Talmud 
Slumbereth  this  Legend  old, 

By  the  stately  Jewish  Rabbis 
To  the  list'ning  people  told. 

Jacob's  ladder  still  is  standing 

And  the  angels  o'er  it  go, 
Up  and  down  from  earth  to  heaven, 

Ever  passing  to  and  fro. 

Messengers  from  Great  Jehovah 
Bringing  mortals  good  or  ill, 

Just  as  they  from  laws  unchanging 
Good  or  evil  shall  distil. 

He  of  Death  with  brow  majestic 
Cometh  wreathed  with  asphodel, 

He  of  Life,  with  smile  seraphic, 
Softly  saying  'all  is  well/ 

He  of  Pain  with  purple  pinions, 
He  of  Joy  all  shining  bright, 

He  of  Hope  with  wings  cerulian, 
He  of  Innocence  all  white. 


1 68  He    of    Prayer. 

And  the  rustling  of  their  pinions 
With  the  falling  of  their  feet, 

Turneth  into  notes  of  music, 

Grand  and  solemn,  soft  and  sweet. 

One — and  only  one  stands  ever 
On  the  ladder's  topmost  round, 

Just  outside  the  gate  celestial, 

Listening  as  to  catch  some  sound. 

But  it  is  not  angel  music 

Unto  which  he  bends  his  ear ; 

'Tis  the  passing  prayer  of  mortals, 
That  he  ever  waits  to  hear. 

By  him  messengers  go  flitting 
But  he  ever  standeth  there; 

For  he  is  the  great  Sandalphon, 
Who  is  gathering  every  prayer. 

In  his  hand  they  turn  to  flowers, 
From  whose  cups  a  fragrance  floats, 

Through  the  open  gate  celestial, 
Mingled  with  the  angels'  notes. 

For  outside  the  golden  portal 
Of  that  City  of  the  skies, 

All  the  earthly  dross  and  passion 
Of  the  prayer  of  mortal  dies. 

Tis  the  Heavenly  essence  only 
That  can  find  an  entrance  there, 

Turned  into  the  scent  of  flowers 
By  Sandalphon — He  of  Prayer. 


The    Highest    Truth.  169 


THE  HIGHEST  TRUTH. 

A  tribal  God  was  Israel's  God 
-  Inspiring  only  fear  and  awe, 
Who  for  His  chosen  moved  alone, 

And  wrought  by  will,  instead  of  law. 
Long  in  this  bondage  were  men  held, 

And  slowly  through  the  desert  came; 
At  times  were  blinded  by  the  smoke, 

And  then  were  dazzled  by  the  flame. 

But  smoke  and  flame  both  passed  away 

As  age  on  age  went  rolling  by; 
Until  the  Father  of  mankind, 

Was  dimly  seen  by  Reason's  eye; 
A  God  who  rules  by  law  alone, 

A  God  in  whom  the  soul  may  trust; 
For  wilfully  He  cannot  slay, 

And  only  does  because  He  must. 

A  God  who  is  the  inmost  truth 

Of  all  and  every  thing  that  is, 
God  of  mankind,  and  Nature,  too ; 

For  every  truth  of  hers  is  His. 
A  God  that  reason  ever  seeks 

But  yet  presumes  not  to  define ; 
A  God  who  bids  man  trust  all  truth, 

May  such  a  God,  in  truth,  be  mine. 


170  Matter. 


MATTER. 

"For  I  shall  have  to  speak  of  the  new  faith  in  mat 
ter,  once  and  still  so  flouted  and  despised,  now  seen  to 
be  the  haunt  of  mystery  and  the  home  of  thought."— 
Chadwick. 

What  is  this  matter  over  which 

There  rages  theologic  strife, 
'Gainst  him  who  says  that  it  contains 

"Promise  and  potency  of  life?" 

Why  is  it  scorned  and  flouted  so? 

Why  counted  gross  and  low? 
If  we  believe  apart  from  it, 

The  mind  can  no  existence  know. 

If  matter's  indestructible, 

Why  is  it  such  a  deadly  sin 
To  hold,  that  through  eternity 

As  now,  it  evermore  has  been? 

They're  Truth's  apostles,  those  who  trace 

Its  grand  illimitable  past; 
And  read  those  laws  which  ne'er  begun 

And  through  eternity  must  last. 


Matter.  171 

And  they,  whom  some  material  call, 
View  matter  with  most  solemn  awe; 

The  womb  of  thought,  of  soul,  of  life, 
The  haunt  of  mystery  and  of  law. 

They  may  not  know  what  law  combines 
Matter  and  mind,  body  and  soul, 

Nor  how  eternally  it  works, 

Producing  one  harmonious  whole. 

'Tis  but  a  part  that  they  can  see 

Of  that  eternal  living  mind 
Which  dwells  in  nature,  as  the  soul 

And  body  are  in  one  combined. 

For  how  can  one  who's  never  known 
The  sense  of  smell  conceive  its  power? 

He  cannot  see,  he  cannot  touch 
The  perfume  rising  from  a  flower. 

Nor  can  the  sense  of  man  conceive 

Matter    etherealized — refined. 
He  cannot  see,  he  cannot  touch 

His  life,  his  soul,  his  conscious  mind. 

Then  count  me  as  a  materialist 
When  matter's  potency  I  plead; 

And  say  it  has  eternal  laws, 

Man's  finite  senses  cannot  read. 


172         The  Prophet's  Wonder  Staff. 


THE  PROPHET'S  WONDER  STAFF. 
A  Legend  of  the  Talmud. 

"Gird  up  thy  loins,  Gehazi,  and  take  my  staff  in 

hand, 
Nor  tarry  by  the  wayside,  for  death  is  in  the  land. 

"If  any  one  shall  meet  thee  salute  him  not,  nor 

stay 
To  answer  any  greeting  that's  given  by  the  way. 

"Pause  not,  but  hasten  onward  to  do  a  work  of 

grace, 
And  lay  the  staff  thou  bearest  upon  the  dead 

child's  face; 

"Back  to  its  earthly  dwelling,  when  thou  thy  task 

hath  done, 
Shall  come  the  absent  spirit  of  this  my  daughter's 

son." 

So   spake   the   holy   Prophet;   his   staff   Gehazi 

seized, 
And  sped  upon  his  errand,  right  joyous  and  well 

pleased. 


The  Prophet's  Wonder  Staff.     173 

Long  had  he  sought  to  hold  it — the  Prophet's 

staff  of  power, 
"I  too  will  work  a  wonder,"  he  said,  "on  this 

very  hour." 

"Good  day  to  thee,  Gehazi,"  cried  Jehu  by  the 
way, 

"Pray  whither  art  thou  hast'ning  so  rapidly  to 
day?" 

"Nay,  stop  me  not,  good  Jehu,"  Gehazi  proudly 

said, 
"The  Prophet's  staff  I  carry,  I  go  to  raise  the 

dead." 


Full   of  his   own   importance  the   servant   sped 

along, 
While    following    quickly    after    there    came    a 

curious  throng. 

Who  clustering  gather  round  him,  like  bees  that 

seek  a  hive, 
As  Jehu  cries  "Gehazi  the  dead  will  make  alive." 

He  seeks  the   Prophet's  chamber,  impatient  of 

renown, 
Already  hears  in  fancy  the  plaudits  of  the  town. 

"Gehazi  works  a  wonder,  the  Prophet  does  no 

more; 
Gehazi  is  a  prophet — the  dead  he  can  restore." 


174         The  Prophet's  Wonder  Staff. 

He  lays  the  staff  he  carries  upon  the  pale  cold 

face, 
And  watches  for  a  signal  that  death  to  life  gives 

place. 

The  sleeping  child  awakes  not,  he  turns  the  staff 

around, 
From  left  to  right  he  lays  it,  but  still  is  heard  no 

sound. 

Ashamed,    he    stands    confounded;    no   plaudits 

now  he  hears, 
But  the  hootings  of  the  people,  their  laughter 

and  their  jeers; 

Back  speeds  he  to  the  Prophet,  "Your  staff,  O 

Master,  take, 
It  hath  no  virtue  in  it,  the  dead  will  not  awake." 

His    loins    the    Prophet    girded    and    quick    to 

Shunem  sped, 
There,  staff  in  hand,  he  enters  the  presence  of 

the  dead; 

The  gaping  crowd  he  scatters,  then  shuts  the 

chamber  door, 
And  prays  the  Lord  Jehovah  the  dead  child  to 

restore ; 

And  then  his  living  body  on  that  cold  form  he 

lays, 
He  breathes  his  life  into  it,  and  yet  more  fervent 

prays. 


The  Prophet's  Wonder  Staff.     175 

By  love  so  warm  and  earnest,  called  in  Jehovah's 

name, 
The  spirit  hovering  o'er  it  back  to  the  body  came. 

Self-seeking,  vain  Gehazi  had  failed  to  raise  the 

dead; 
"Here,  take  thy  child,  O  mother!"  the  grand  old 

Prophet  said. 

Not  with  his  staff  the  wonder  upon  the  dead  he 

wrought, 
But  by  his  prayers  so  humble,  and  his  unselfish 

thought. 


176  The    Magic    Ring. 


THE  MAGIC  RING. 
From  the  German  of  Lessing. 

Among  the  treasures  of  an  Eastern  King 
Was,  long  ago,  a  magic  opal  ring, 
Which,    rightly    worn,    the   wondrous    gift    con 
ferred 

To  be  by  God  beloved,  by  man  preferred; 
Father  to  son  the  jewel  handed  down, 
The  eldest  always  had  it  with  the  crown; 
At  length  a  father  three  sons  loved  so  well, 
Which  one  the  best,  himself  he  could  not  tell, 
And  so  he  promised  each  of  them  apart, 
That  he  should  have  the  treasure  of  his  heart; 
And  then,  a  craftsman  calling  to  his  aid, 
Two  other  rings  in  secret  he  had  made; 
So  like  each  other  did  the  opals  glow, 
Which  was  the  first  no  mortal  man  could  know. 
In  secret  then  to  each  he  gave  a  ring 
Just  as  he  felt  the  flutter  of  Death's  wing. 
He  died — and  each  one  of  the  brothers  three 
Claimed  that  his  ring  the  real  gem  must  be ; 
In  fierce  contention  long  did  they  dispute 
Then  took  them  to  a  Judge  of  great  repute, 


The    Magic    Ring.  177 

Before  whom  each  one  pleads  the  ring  that's  his 

Of  all  the  three,  the  only  true  one  is. 

He  heard  them  all,  then  calmly  did  pronounce 

To  magic  charm  each  must  all  claim  renounce; 

"For  see,"  he  said,  "not  one  imparts 

The  love  of  God  or  man  unto  your  hearts; 

Else  would  ye  not  contend  your  ring  alone 

Contains  the  only  true  and  magic  stone. 

Go  now,  your  claim  to  God's  exclusive  love 

By  piety  and  self-denial  prove, 

If  lives  of  love  and  charity  ye  live, 

A  wiser  one  than  I  shall  judgment  give." 

Thus  wrangles  Christian,  Turk  and  Jew, 

Each  claims  his  creed — and  only  his — is  true; 

He  is  the  favored  son  of  God  most  High. 

Why  not  by  lives  of  self-denial  try 

To  prove  that  claim  ?    Nor  ever  wrangling  stand ; 

Each  holds  a  gem  of  truth  within  his  hand; 

And  if  he  rightly  wears  his  wondrous  ring, 

To  him  the  love  of  God  and  man  'twill  bring. 


178  Hermes'    Ear. 


HERMES'  EAR. 

'Twas  half  in  sport,  and  half  in  spite, 

So  myths  Olympian  say, 
That  Zeus,  the  father  of  the  gods, 

First  moulded  man  of  clay. 

He  worked  as  gods  alone  can  work, 
Till  Juno's  voice  he  hears, 

And  then  the  image  covered  up 
Completed,  but  the  ears. 

He  closed  the  door,  lest  prying"  eyes 

His  artist  work  should  see, 
But  as  he  hastened  to  the  queen 

Forgot  to  turn  the  key. 

So  Hermes,  sauntering  slowly  by, 

Lifted  the   latch  unbid, 
And  curious,  raised  the  moulding  cloth, 

Whose  folds  the  statue  hid. 

"Aha !"  he  cried,  "I'll  finish  this," 

And  seized  a  curving  shell, 
Whose  depths  the  murmuring  echo  hid 

Of  ocean's  distant  swell. 


Hermes'    Ear.  179 

"I'll  help  the  Thunderer  make  a  man," 

In  pert  conceit  he  said, 
Then  stuck  the  shell  just  where  the  ear 

Should  be  upon  the  head. 

But,  ere  a  second  he  could  place, 

The  door  flew  open  wide, 
Back  to  his  work,  impatient  Zeus 

Returns  from  Juno's  side. 

He  boxed  the  boy,  and  turned  him  out, 

And  laughed  at  his  conceit, 
Yet  left  the  shell  until  he  could 

The  other  ear  complete. 

'Tis  scarcely  done  e'er  Juno  calls 

The  god  again  away, 
And  he  returns  to  find  the  shell 

Fixed  in  the  hardened  clay. 

"  'Tis  Juno's  fault,"  in  wrath  he  cries, 

"She  always  interferes, 
And  man,  the  queen  of  Heaven  may  thank, 

For  his  imperfect  ears. 

"The  good  the  true,  the  beautiful 

He'll  hear  alone  through  me, 
Through  Hermes'  shell  imperfect  sounds 

From  gossip's  murmuring  sea." 

And  so  it  is,  with  Zeus'  ear 

That  man  the  truth  discerns, 
While  evermore  to  gossip's  voice 

The  other  one  he  turns. 


180         The  Law  and  the  Gospel. 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL. 

Suggested  by  a  sermon  preached  January   18,    1882, 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Shields. 

Reads  the  grand  old  law  of  Israel, 
"Love  your  neighbor,  hate  your  foe"l 

But  a  grander,  nobler  teaching 
Does  the  Gospel  to  us  show. 

Give  to  him  who  most  maligns  you, 
And  whose  heart  is  filled  with  hate, 

Tenderest  consideration, 
With  a  love  both  sweet  and  great. 

Who  is  there  that  stands  among  us 
From  all  pain  and  sorrow  free? 

None — Ah !  none,  although  the  suff 'ring 
May  unknown  to  others  be. 

Grief,  perchance,  has  made  our  brother 
Hard  as  was  that  desert  stone, 

From  which  gushed  the  living  water 
'Neath  the  prophet's  urgent  tone. 

In  his  anger  he  is  bitter, 
Thinking  us  to  him  the  same; 

Feeling  that  our  loving  kindness 
Is  for  him  an  empty  name. 


The  Law  and  the  Gospel.         181 

Bitter  too,  were  Marah's  waters, 
'Till  the  tree  was  in  them  thrown; 

And  like  them  the  heart  is  sweetened, 
By  the  flowers  of  love  alone. 

Says    tradition — sweet    deceiver, — 
That  the  crimson  fuchsia  sprung, 

Of  the  blood  of  Jesus  dropping 
As  upon  the  cross  He  hung. 

Victim,  He,  of  man's  injustice, 
But  his  tender  words  were  true; 

When  He  prayed  for  their  forgiveness, 
"For  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

So,  though  word  or  deed  of  others 
Drops  of  life-blood  from  us  wring; 

Let  the  flowers  of  blest  affection 
E'en  from  black  injustice  spring. 

He — Humanity's  grand  Orpheus, — • 
Struck  the  keynote  of  its  heart; 

And  the  sympathy  still  swelling, 
From  the  earth  shall  not  depart, 

'Till  the  brotherhood  of  Jesus, 
Shall  pervade  the  human  soul ; 

And  his  words  of  meek  forgiveness, 
Down  the  ages  grandly  roll. 


1 82       A  Legend  of  St.  Christopher. 


A  LEGEND  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER. 

Far  back  in  the  distant  long  ago 

Lies  the  fairy-land  of  Time ; 
When  saints  and  angels  walked  this  earth, 

And  man  was  in  his  prime. 

Brave  champions  fought  with  sword  and  lance, 

Demons  appearing  then 
In  shape  of  cruel  monsters  fierce, 

Instead  of  forms  of  men. 

And  there  were  giants  in  those  days 
Of  wondrous  strength  and  might; 

Who  sometimes  battled  for  the  wrong 
And  sometimes  for  the  right. 

One  Offero — the  bearer — swore 

He  only  would  obey 
The  strongest  man  and  mightiest  prince, 

Who  on  this  earth  held  sway. 

He  sought  him  far,  he  sought  him  near, 

The  quest  was  all  in  vain; 
For  each  the  power  of  Satan  feared, 

Lest  he  by  it  be  slain. 


A  Legend  of  St.  Christopher.       183 

At  length  he  reached  a  hermit's  cell, 

Who  told  him  Jesus'  story ; 
And  said  that  Satan's  self  must  bow 

To  Christ  in  all  his  glory. 

"Show  me  this  Christ,"  cried  Offero, 

"And  tell  me  in  what  manner 
I  may  become  his  soldier  true, 

And  fight  beneath  his  banner." 

"First  you  must  fast,"  the  hermit  said, 
"Then  many  a  prayer  must  say." 

"I  will  not  fast,"  cried  Offero, 
"And  know  not  how  to  pray." 

"For  if  I  fast  my  strength  will  go, 

And  how  then  could  I  fight? 
I  seek  the  service  of  a  prince, 

Who'll  use  my  strength  aright." 

"If  you  will  neither  fast  nor  pray, 

By  yonder  river  stand; 
For  many  struggle  through  the  ford, 

Who  need  a  helping  hand." 

"That  is  a  service  I  can  do," 

The  giant  joyful  cried; 
And  from  its  roots  he  tore  a  palm, 

His  steps  to  stay  and  guide. 

And  then  he  bent  his  back  to  work, 

And  many  a  day  thus  spent; 
Aiding  the  weak  and  weary,  who 

Across  the  river  went. 


184       A  Legend  of  St.  Christopher. 

One  stormy  night  he  heard  a  cry, 
When  wind  and  waves  were  wild ; 

And  on  the  river's  bank  he  found 
A  wailing  little  child. 

"Be  of  good  cheer,"  said  Offero, 

"I'll  take  you  safely  o'er;" 
And  on  his  back  across  the  stream 

The  little  child  he  bore. 

Sore  was  the  toil,  the  burden  great, 

"Oh !  why  is  this  ?"  he  said. 
"The  whole  world's  sins,"  the  child  replied, 

"Are  resting  on  my  head." 

"Then  you  are  he  I  long  have  sought," 

The  giant  hopeful  cried, 
"For  ''neath  the  weight  you  always  bear 

I  long  ago  had  died." 

"None  but  a  stronger  man  than  I, 

I've  sworn  I  would  obey ; 
Then  grant  me  this,  Oh !  Leader  Christ, 

And  teach  me  how  to  pray." 

"There  is  no  need,"  the  Christ-child  said, 

"For  he  who  labors,  prays ; 
And  you  in  aiding  fellow-men 

Are  passing  all  your  days. 

"And  he  prays  best,  who  best  doth  work, 

In  every  way  he  can ; 
Without  a  single  thought  of  self, 

To  serve  his  fellow-man." 


A  Legend  of  St.  Christopher.       185 

And  then  he  signed  him  with  the  cross, 

And  said  Thou  shalt  not  be 
Offero;  but  Christoffero, 

Since  thou  hast  carried  me." 

The  giant  knelt,  and  humbly  said, 

"Lord !  help  me,  lest  I  faint ;" 
And  evermore  toiled  on  for  men, 

As  Christopher  the  saint. 


1 86  The    Happy    Valley. 


THE  HAPPY  VALLEY. 

In  the  heart  of  Carolina,  by  the  Blue  Ridge  girded 

round, 
May  the  fabled   Happy  Valley  of  Rasselas  be 

found ; 
By  the  rushing  of  the  waters  it  was  hollowed 

from  the  stone, 
When  the  earth  was  hot  and  molten  ere  a  single 

plant  had  grown; 

And  by  the  tramp  of  ages  was  slowly  worn  away, 
Till  the  breath  of  life  came  stealing  down  the 

canon  bare  and  gray, 

Then  Nature  threw  her  mantle  o'er  the  moun 
tain's  rugged  side, 
And  smiled  upon  the  valley,  till  with  laughter 

it  replied : 
And  she  said,  "I'll  make  a  garden  in  the  hollow 

of  my  hand, 
With  the  water  racing  round  it,  like  a  sparkling 

jeweled  band. 
Here    summer's    heat    I'll    temper,    and    lighten 

winter's  snow, 
While    from    the    earth    forever    shall    healing 

waters  flow." 


The    Happy    Valley.  187 

Right  royally  the  mother  has  kept  her  gracious 
word, 

For  the  laughter  of  the  waters  in  the  vale  is 
always  heard ; 

While  a  'broidery  of  flowers,  the  loveliest  ever 
seen 

Casts  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  o'er  her  robe  of 
living  green. 

On  the  grass  she  threw  her  sceptre,  and  the 
golden-rod  upsprung. 

While  a  drapery  of  creepers  o'er  each  preci 
pice  she  hung; 

Where  in  autumn  like  gay  banners  on  battlements 
of  old, 

From  her  fortress  they  are  streaming  in  crim 
son  and  in  gold. 

Here  the  laurel  and  the  ivy  spread  their  cups  of 
pink  and  white, 

And  the  scarlet  trumpet-flower  turns  its  clusters 
to  the  light, 

While  the  oxydendrum's  waving  o'er  the  maiden 
hair  below, 

And  the  black-haw's  opal  berries  in  the  sunlight 
changeful  glow. 

And  she  stooped  and  whispered  softly  in  the 
red-man's  list'ning  ear 

The  secret  of  the  valley,  and  its  waters  warm 
and  clear; 

And  she  told  him  they  were  flowing  from  her 
heart  so  warm  and  true, 

With  a  wondrous  gift  of  healing  and  lost  vigor 
to  renew. 


1 88  The    Happy    Valley. 

And  she  bade  him  wall  the  hollow  from  which 

they  freely  welled 
With    giant    logs    of    locust    from    her    fertile 

bosom  felled; 
And  thus  the  white  man  found  it  a  hundred  years 

ago, 
When   he   followed   Tahkeeostee  in  its   sinuous 

racing  flow ; 
As  it  winds  among  the  mountains  a  vein  from 

Nature's  heart, 
And    clasps    this    Happy    Valley    unwilling    to 

depart. 
WARM  SPRINGS,  N.  C,  August  i,  1882. 


Thoughts.  189 


THOUGHTS. 

Caught    on    the    wing    between    Warm    Springs    and 
Alexander's  (N.  C),  October  14,  1882. 

The  night  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Floats  like  a  cloud  away; 
While  the  wondrous  blaze  of  the  comet 

Dies  in  the  glare  of  day; 

And  now  on  the  rugged  mountains 

I  see  the  sunrise  glow, 
And  catch  at  their  base  the  sparkle 

Of  Tahkeeostee's  flow; 

While  through  the  cloudy  curtain 

Its  censer-waves  uprolled 
Shines  a  glow  of  green  and  crimson, 

A  gleam  of  autumn's  gold. 

And  the  works  of  man  seem  nothing, 

Amid  these  gorges  grand, 
To  the  wonders  wrought  by  Nature, 

The  pictures  from  her  hand. 

Yet  oft  o'er  the  grand  old  mother, 

A  victory  he'll  gain ; 
For  he  is  the  child  of  her  bosom, 

Her  noblest  work  his  brain. 


190  Thoughts. 

He's  her  youngest  born,  and  she  lets  him 
In  her  fond  indulgence  rule; 

Till  he  fancies  he's  the  master, 
She  the  obedient  tool. 

For  she  lends  him  all  her  powers, 
As  he's  playing  at  her  feet; 

And  smiles  at  his  puny  efforts, 
With  the  mother  to  compete. 

She  opens  her  volume  for  him, 
With  pictures  grand  and  true; 

Which,  dating  from  eternity, 
Eternally  is  new. 

And  she  whispers  secrets  to  him, 

And  teaches  all  he  learns; 
Though  oft  'gainst  the  face  of  the  mother 

The  weapon  she  gave,  he  turns. 

For  he  knows  she  still  is  hiding, 

Secrets  she  ne'er  has  told; 
And  age  on  age  he's  striven 

Life's  mystery  to  unfold. 

-i 
But  when  he  stands  in  the  presence 

Of  these  mountains  grand  and  wild, 
He  feels  she  indeed  is  the  mother, 

He,  but  the  ignorant  child. 


The    Heart    of   Jesus.  191 


THE  HEART  OF  JESUS. 

In  the  dim  twilight  which  betokened  the  long  night 
of  death  at  hand,  the  poet's  clear  vision  recognized 
the  Heart  of  Jesus ;  and  with  a  strength  not  of  this 
world,  her  last  effort  was  to  reach  it! 

Embalmed  and  closed  in  silver  case 
The  heart  of  Bruce  Lord  Douglas  bore, 

And  when  the  Panym  round  him  pressed 
He  tossed  the  casket  far  before. 

"In  life,"  he  cried,  "you  always  led, 
While  Douglas  followed  close  behind; 

Go  foremost  still — I'll  cut  my  way 
The  sacred  heart  of  Bruce  to  find." 

The  heart  of  Jesus !  sacred  heart ! 

I'll  follow  wheresoe'er  it  leads; 
Not  dead,  like  Douglas'  heart  of  Bruce; 

For  all  mankind  alike  it  bleeds. 

No  single  church  in  silver  case 
Enclosed  the  heart  of  Jesus  holds ; 

That  generous  heart,  that  loving  heart, 
Humanity  divine  enfolds. 

But  like  the  Douglas  we  must  cut 

Our  way  through  foes  that  heart  to  find, 

And  feel  that  God  so  loved  this  world 
He  gave  his  heart  for  all  mankind. 


192  Dux    Foemina    Facti. 


DUX  FOEMINA  FACTI. 

The  following  tribute  to  the  cause  she  loved  so  well, 
was  the  last  poem  ever  written  by  Mrs.  Clarke,  and 
was  read  by  her  son,  William  J.  Clarke,  on  May  10, 
1885,  on  the  unveiling  of  the  statue  of  a  Confederate 
soldier,  erected  by  the  Ladies  of  the  Memorial  Asso 
ciation  of  New  Berne. 

The  patriotic  devotion  of  Marmion  that  rose  supe 
rior  to  his  death-agony  in  the  battle  and  prompted  his 
cry: 

" — Yet   my   last   thought    is    England's," 

is  not  of  more  heroic  mould  than  the  love  of  country, 
which,  like  a  cloudless  sunset,  gilded  and  adorned  the 
slowly  ebbing  flood  of  her  life-tide,  as  it  was  yielding 
to  eternity  its  own. 

"On  Fame's  eternal  camping  ground" 
A  sentinel  now  takes  his  stand, 

To  guard  his  comrades'  dreamless  sleep 
Until  relieved  by  Time's  command. 

But — though  this  soldier  carved  in  stone 
May  slowly  crumble  and  decay, — 

For  "earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust" 
Material  things  all  pass  away: 


Dux    Foemina    Facti.  193 

Yet,  Love,  like  Truth,  can  never  die ; 

And  'graved  on  Time's  historic  page, 
The  memory  of  our  soldiers'  deeds 

Shall  live  undimmed  from  age  to  age. 

By  woman's  hand  'tis  written  there, 
"Our  dead  shall  live,"  she  said, 

And  placed  her  sentinel  above 

The  grave  of  the  Confederate  dead. 

Stand  there,  O  effigy  in  stone! 

To  guard  'gainst  time's  corroding  dust 
The  sacred  mem'ries  of  the  past 

Confided  to  your  silent  trust. 


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The  Instrument  Tuned 

BY  ROSA  B.  HITT. 

Attractive  Binding,  75  cents. 

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I  'An  able  and  interesting  work  on  a  comparatively  new 
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The  chapter-captions  will  give  an  excellent  idea  of  the, 
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Various  Therapeutic  Agents.j 

Influence  of  Mind. 

Extravagant  Emotions*; 

Insomnia. 

Relaxation. 

Harmony  the  LawUf  Naturfl 


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Evelyn 

A  Story  of  the  West  and  the  Far"  East, 
BY  MRS.  ANSEL  OPSFHEIM. 

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The  L«wst  of  the  Cavaliers 

BY  N,  J.  FLOYD. 

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j  "No  wiser  or  more  brilliant  pen  has  told  the  story  of 
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Lzwdy  Century 

BY  MRS.  A.  G.  KINTZEU, 

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"Sparkling  from  cover  to  cover." 


NAN   &  SUE 

Stenographers 

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THe  Sin  of  Ignorance 

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Lost  in  the  Mammoth  Cave 

BY  D.   RILEY  GUERNSEY. 
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lost  in  the  Mammoth  Cave ! 
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Night 

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BY  ELLEN  CHAZAL  CHAPEAU. 
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Price,  $i.oo. 

The  scenes  of  this  story  are  laid  in  Ste. 
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Wo  Surrender. 

BY  JOHN  N.  SWIFT  AND  WILLIAM  S.  BIRGE,  M.D. 

Cloth,    I2mo.        Frontispiece.        Price,    $1.50 

From  the  moment  this  story  opens  in  the  old 
whaling  station  of  New  Bedford,  until  the  climax 
of  climaxes  is  reached  in  the  high  seas  some 
where  off  the  coast  of  Chile,  excitement  and  in 
terest  are  in  order.  It  is  a  tale  that  allows  of 
no  laying  aside  and  as  incident  comes  crowding 
upon  incident  the  reader  finds  himself  utterly 
oblivious  to  everything  but  the  words  before 
him. 

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Chilean  commander  and  his  officers  of  the  cruiser 
"Dona  Inez"  when,  on  their  arrival  at  the  land 
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vanished. 

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loined  for  felonious  purposes,  and  while  she  and 
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marine  castastrophe  one  of  the  former  officers 
is  dashing  overland  to  head  off  if  possible  dis 
agreeable  contingencies  with  the  Chilean  Naval 
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Broadway  Publishing  Company, 

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Reuben:  His  Book 

BY  MORTON  H.  PEMBERTON. 

Cloth,  Gilt  lettering,  I2mo.     Postpaid,  $1.00. 
Portrait  in  Colors. 

One  of  the  funniest,  cleverest,  uniquest  volumes 
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CHAMP  CLARK. — "I  haven't  laughed  so  much 
since  I  first  read  Mark  Twain's  'Roughing  It.'  " 

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'Reub,  here's  our  hand.' " 

J}  Scarlet  Repentance 

BY  ARCHIE  BELL. 
Cloth,   I2mo.     Price,  $1.00. 

One  Review:  "The  history  of  one  night  and 
one  day's  flaming  passion  between  a  beauti 
ful  Italian  woman  and  a  handsome  youth — 
strangers — who  meet  upon  a  Pullman  car. 
There  comes  into  the  story  all  the  elementary 
passions,  hatred,  jealousy,  desire  and — sorrow. 

"It  is  a  story  that  will  appeal  to  those  who 
prefer  novels  in  which  red  blood  is  throbbing 
madly.  It  is  not  for  prudes,  nor  for  parsons, 
nor  poseurs.  It's  a  book  for  men  and  women 
who  have  lived." — The  Club-Fellow. 

Broadway  Publishing  Company, 

835  Broadway,  New  York. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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299 


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